ouch, and he
disappeared within.

Titian, standing by his easel, looked up quickly. "You are come!" He
sprang forward, holding out his hands.

The young man took them, looking into the welcoming eyes. "I am come,"
he said slowly.

"Why did you send for me?" he asked after a pause. His eyes sought the
glowing walls of color, with curious, eager glance.

"Nothing there!" The painter shook his head with a wistful smile. "I
have not done a stroke since that last night--the night I rowed you out
to the lagoon."

"Why not?" They were seated by a window; the tide of life drifted below.

Titian shook his head again. "I was broken at first--too strained and
weak. My fingers would not follow my thoughts." He glanced down at them
ruefully. "And then--" His voice changed. "Then they came for me to
finish his pictures.... There has been no time."

"Did he want you to do it?" asked the other in a low voice.

Titian's gaze returned the question. "I shall never know--He would not
see me--to the last. He never spoke.... When he was gone they came for
me. I did the work and asked no questions--for friendship's sake." He
sighed gently and his glance fell on the moving, changing crowd below.

"His name is water," he said slowly. "Ask for the fame of
Giorgione--They will name you--Titian!" He laughed bitterly.

The young man's smile had little mirth in it. "We are all like that...."
He turned to him sharply: "Why did you want me?"

The painter roused himself. "To sit for me"--with a swift look. "I am
hunted! I cannot wipe away your face--as it looked that night. I paint
nothing.... Perhaps when you are done in oil I shall rest easy." He
laughed shortly and rose to his feet.

The young man rose also with a courteous gesture of the supple hand. "I
am at your service, Signor Cevelli, now and always."

Titian's eyes swept the graceful figure. "I must begin at once." He
turned away to an easel.

"There was a picture begun, was there not?" asked the young man. He had
not moved from his place.

Titian looked up swiftly. "Yes," he said. "Yes."

"Why not finish that?"

The painter waited an awkward moment. He crossed the room and fumbled
among the canvases. Then he brought it and placed it on the easel,
looking at it.... Slowly the look changed to one of pride, and his hand
reached out for a brush.

The young man moved to his side. They looked at it in silence.

"You will not do better." The young man spoke with decision. "Be