to touch the Bambino--sometimes
petulantly, sometimes in silent scorn. The tiny figure lay always on the
studio floor, dusty and disarranged. The artist picked it up. It was an
absurd little wooden face in the lace cap. He straightened the velvet
mantle and smoothed the crumpled dress. He stepped to the model-stand
and placed the tiny figure in the draped chair. It rested stiffly
against the arm.

A light laugh caused him to turn his head. He was kneeling in front of
the Bambino.

"I see that you have supplied my place, Sir Painter," said a mocking
voice.

He turned quickly and faced the little doorway. She stood there,
smiling, scornful, her hands full of some delicate flimsy stuff, a gold
thimble-cap on her finger. "It would not make a bad picture," she said
tranquilly, "you and the Bambino."

His face lighted up. "You have come!" He hastened toward her with
outstretched hand.

With a pretty gesture of the fragile sewing she ignored the hand. "Yes,
I dared not trust you. You might paint in the Bambino face instead of
mine, by mistake."

She approached the chair and seated herself carelessly. The Bambino
slipped meekly through the arm to the floor.

"Zano told me"--he began.

"Yes, I know. He was very tiresome. I thought he would never go. I
really feared that we might quarrel. It is too warm." She glanced about
the shaded room. "You manage it well," she said approvingly. "It is by
far the coolest place in the palace."

"You will be going to the mountains soon?" He saw that she was talking
lightly to cover herself, and fell in with her mood. He watched her as
he arranged the easel and prepared his colors. Once he stopped and
sketched rapidly for a minute on the small drawing-board.

She looked inquiry.

"Only an eyebrow," he explained.

She smiled serenely. "You should make a collection of those eyebrows.
They must mount into the hundreds by this time. You could label them
'Characters of the Lady Lisa.'"

"The Souls of Lady Lisa."

The lady turned her head aside. "Your distinctions are too subtle," she
said. Her eye fell on the Bambino, resting disgracefully on its wooden
head. "Poor little figurine," she murmured, reaching a slender hand to
draw it up. She straightened the tumbled finery absently. It slipped to
her lap, and lay there. Her hands were idle, her eyes looking far into
space.

The painter worked rapidly. She stirred slightly. "Sit still," he said,
almost harshly.

She gave a quick,