st
finish it as it stands--I am ready." He moved to his place by the
console, dropping his hand upon it and standing at ease.

Titian looked at him doubtfully. "We shall change the length and perhaps
the pose," he said thoughtfully.

"Why?" The question came sharply.

The painter colored under it. "I had planned--to make much of
the--hands." He hesitated between the words. "The change will be
simple," he added hastily.

"Would you mind painting me as I am?" There was a note of insistence
behind the words.

Titian's eyes leaped at the question. They scanned the figure before him
with quick, gleaming lights.

The young man read their depths. "Go on," he said coolly. "When my
feelings are hurt I will tell you."

The painter took up his brushes, working with swift haste. Fingers and
brush and thumb flew across the canvas. Splotches of color were daubed
on and rubbed carelessly in and removed with infinite pains. Over the
picture crept a glow of living color and of light.

At last the brush dropped. "I can do no more--to-day," he said slowly.
His eyes dwelt on the picture lovingly.

The young man came across and joined him, looking down at the glowing
canvas. His lips curved in a sweet smile.

"You thought I was ashamed of it?" The gloved hand lifted itself
slightly. "I would not part with it--not for all the gold of Venice!"

The painter's eyes were on it, doubtingly. "But you wear it gloved," he
stammered.

"It is not for the world to see," murmured the young man quietly. "It is
our secret--hers and mine. It was her last touch on my hand."

Titian's eyes stared at him.

"You did not know?" The lips smiled at him. "It was her hand that did
it." He touched the glove lightly. "Giorgione stood over her--and guided
it...." His voice ceased with a catch.

Titian's eyes were full of tears. "Poor Violante!" he murmured. "Poor
child!"

The other nodded slightly. "It has pledged us forever--forever." He
repeated the words in low, musical exultation. The locket suspended from
its slender chain amid the folds of his cloak, swung forward as he
moved. A hand stayed it--the gloved hand.

There was silence between them. Voices from the canal floated up,
laughter-laden. The June sunshine flooded in.

Titian roused himself with a sigh. "It shall be called 'The Portrait of
a Gentleman,'" he said. He laid his hand with swift affection on the arm
beside him.

The young man smiled back. His hand closed firmly over the