conspiracy　formed　to　nip　his　glory　in　the　buda　bud　that　has　taken
  twenty　years　to　blossom。　　Ask　him　if　he　knows　me；　and　he　will　tell
  you　I　am　a　horribly　ugly　old　woman；　who　has　vowed　his　destruction
  because　he　won't　paint　her　portrait　as　a　pendant　to　Titian's　Flora。
  I　fancy　that　since　then　he　has　had　none　but　chance　followers；
  innocent　strangers　like　yourself；　who　have　taken　him　at　his　word。
  The　mountain　is　still　in　labour；　I　have　not　heard　that　the　mouse　has
  been　born。　　I　pass　him　once　in　a　while　in　the　galleries；　and　he　fixes
  his　great　dark　eyes　on　me　with　a　sublimity　of　indifference；　as　if　I
  were　a　bad　copy　of　a　Sassoferrato！　　It　is　a　long　time　ago　now　that　I
  heard　that　he　was　making　studies　for　a　Madonna　who　was　to　be　a　resume
  of　all　the　other　Madonnas　of　the　Italian　schoollike　that　antique
  Venus　who　borrowed　a　nose　from　one　great　image　and　an　ankle　from
  another。　　It's　certainly　a　masterly　idea。　　The　parts　may　be　fine；　but
  when　I　think　of　my　unhappy　portrait　I　tremble　for　the　whole。　　He　has
  communicated　this　striking　idea　under　the　pledge　of　solemn　secrecy　to
  fifty　chosen　spirits；　to　every　one　he　has　ever　been　able　to　button…
  hole　for　five　minutes。　　I　suppose　he　wants　to　get　an　order　for　it；
  and　he　is　not　to　blame；　for　Heaven　knows　how　he　lives。　　I　see　by　your
  blush；〃　my　hostess　frankly　continued；　〃that　you　have　been　honoured
  with　his　confidence。　　You　needn't　be　ashamed；　my　dear　young　man；　a
  man　of　your　age　is　none　the　worse　for　a　certain　generous　credulity。
  Only　allow　me　to　give　you　a　word　of　advice：　　keep　your　credulity　out
  of　your　pockets！　　Don't　pay　for　the　picture　till　it's　delivered。　　You
  have　not　been　treated　to　a　peep　at　it；　I　imagine！　　No　more　have　your
  fifty　predecessors　in　the　faith。　　There　are　people　who　doubt　whether
  there　is　any　picture　to　be　seen。　　I　fancy；　myself；　that　if　one　were
  to　get　into　his　studio；　one　would　find　something　very　like　the
  picture　in　that　tale　of　Balzac'sa　mere　mass　of　incoherent　scratches
  and　daubs；　a　jumble　of　dead　paint！〃
  I　listened　to　this　pungent　recital　in　silent　wonder。　　It　had　a
  painfully　plausible　sound；　and　was　not　inconsistent　with　certain　shy
  suspicions　of　my　own。　　My　hostess　was　not　only　a　clever　woman；　but
  presumably　a　generous　one。　　I　determined　to　let　my　judgment　wait　upon
  events。　　Possibly　she　was　right；　but　if　she　was　wrong；　she　was
  cruelly　wrong！　　Her　version　of　my　friend's　eccentricities　made　me
  impatient　to　see　him　again　and　examine　him　in　the　light　of　public
  opinion。　　On　our　next　meeting　I　immediately　asked　him　if　he　knew　Mrs。
  Coventry。　　He　laid　his　hand　on　my　arm　and　gave　me　a　sad　smile。　　〃Has
  she　taxed　YOUR　gallantry　at　last？〃　he　asked。　　〃She's　a　foolish　woman。
  She's　frivolous　and　heartless；　and　she　pretends　to　be　serious　and
  kind。　　She　prattles　about　Giotto's　second　manner　and　Vittoria
  Colonna's　liaison　with　'Michael'one　would　think　that　Michael　lived
  across　the　way　and　was　expected　in　to　take　a　hand　at　whistbut　she
  knows　as　little　about　art；　and　about　the　conditions　of　production；　as
  I　know　about　Buddhism。　　She　profanes　sacred　words；〃　he　added　more
  vehemently；　after　a　pause。　　〃She　cares　for　you　only　as　some　one　to
  band　teacups　in　that　horrible　mendacious　little　parlour　of　hers；　with
  its　trumpery　Peruginos！　　If　you　can't　dash　off　a　new　picture　every
  three　days；　and　let　her　hand　it　round　among　her　guests；　she　tells
  them　in　plain　English　that　you　are　an　impostor！〃
  This　attempt　of　mine　to　test　Mrs。　Coventry's　accuracy　was　made　in　the
  course　of　a　late　afternoon　walk　to　the　quiet　old　church　of　San
  Miniato；　on　one　of　the　hill…tops　which　directly　overlook　the　city；
  from　whose　gates　you　are　guided　to　it　by　a　stony　and　cypress…bordered
  walk；　which　seems　a　very　fitting　avenue　to　a　shrine。　　No　spot　is　more
  propitious　to　lingering　repose　than　the　broad　terrace　in　front　of　the
  church；　where；　lounging　against　the　parapet；　you　may　glance　in　slow
  alternation　from　the　black　and　yellow　marbles　of　the　church　facade；
  seamed　and　cracked　with　time　and　wind…sown　with　a　tender　flora　of　its
  own；　down　to　the　full　domes　and　slender　towers　of　Florence　and　over
  to　the　blue　sweep　of　the　wide…mouthed　cup　of　mountains　into　whose
  hollow　the　little　treasure　city　has　been　dropped。　　I　had　proposed；　as
  a　diversion　from　the　painful　memories　evoked　by　Mrs。　Coventry's　name；
  that　Theobald　should　go　with　me　the　next　evening　to　the　opera；　where
  some　rarely…played　work　was　to　be　given。　　He　declined；　as　I　half
  expected；　for　I　observed　that　he　regularly　kept　his　evenings　in
  reserve；　and　never　alluded　to　his　manner　of　passing　them。　　〃You　have
  reminded　me　before；〃　I　said；　smiling；　〃of　that　charming　speech　of　the
  Florentine　painter　in　Alfred　de　Musset's　'Lorenzaccio'：　　'I　do　no
  harm　to　anyone。　　I　pass　my　days　in　my　studio；　On　Sunday　I　go　to　the
  Annunziata　or　to　Santa　Mario；　the　monks　think　I　have　a　voice；　they
  dress　me　in　a　white　gown　and　a　red　cap；　and　I　take　a　share　in　the
  choruses；　sometimes　I　do　a　little　solo：　　these　are　the　only　times　I
  go　into　public。　　In　the　evening；　I　visit　my　sweetheart；　when　the
  night　is　fine；　we　pass　it　on　her　balcony。'　　I　don't　know　whether　you
  have　a　sweetheart；　or　whether　she　has　a　balcony。　　But　if　you　are　so
  happy；　it's　certainly　better　than　trying　to　find　a　charm　in　a　third…
  rate　prima　donna。〃
  He　made　no　immediate　response；　but　at　last　he　turned　to　me　solemnly。
  〃Can　you　look　upon　a　beautiful　woman　with　reverent　eyes？〃
  〃Really；〃　I　said；　〃I　don't　pretend　to　be　sheepish；　but　I　should　be
  sorry　to　think　I　was　impudent。〃　　And　I　asked　him　what　in　the　world　he
  meant。　　When　at　last　I　had　assured　him　that　I　could　undertake　to
  temper　admiration　with　respect；　he　informed　me；　with　an　air　of
  religious　mystery；　that　it　was　in　his　power　to　introduce　me　to　the
  most　beautiful　woman　in　Italy〃A　beauty　with　a　soul！〃
  〃Upon　my　word；〃　I　cried；　〃you　are　extremely　fortunate；　and　that　is　a
  most　attractive　description。〃
  〃This　woman's　beauty；〃　he　went　on；　〃is　a　lesson；　a　morality；　a　poem！
  It's　my　daily　study。〃
  Of　course；　after　this；　I　lost　no　time　in　reminding　him　of　what；
  before　we　parted；　had　taken　the　shape　of　a　promise。　　〃I　feel
  somehow；〃　he　had　said；　〃as　if　it　were　a　sort　of　violation　of　that
  privacy　in　which　I　have　always　contemplated　her　beauty。　　This　is
  friendship；　my　friend。　　No　hint　of　her　existence　has　ever　fallen　from
  my　lips。　　But　with　too　great　a　familiarity　we　are　apt　to　lose　a　sense
  of　the　real　value　of　things；　and　you　perhaps　will　throw　some　new
  light　upon　it　and　offer　a　fresher　interpretation。〃
  We　went　accordingly　by　appointment　to　a　certain　ancient　house　in　the
  heart　of　Florencethe　precinct　of　the　Mercato　Vecchioand　climbed　a
  dark；　steep　staircase；　to　the　very　summit　of　the　edifice。　　Theobald's
  beauty　seemed　as　loftily　exalted　above　the　line　of　common　vision　as
  his　artistic　ideal　was　lifted　above　the　usual　practice　of　men。　　He
  passed　without　knocking　into　the　dark　vestibule　of　a　small　apartment；
  and；　flinging　open　an　inner　door；　ushered　me　into　a　small　saloon。
  The　room　seemed　mean　and　sombre；　though　I　caught　a　glimpse　of　white
  curtains　swaying　gently　at　an　open　window。　　At　a　table；　near　a　lamp；
  sat　a　woman　dressed　in　black；　working　at　a　piece　of　embroidery。　　As
  Theobald　entered　she　looked　up　calmly；　with　a　smile；　but　seeing　me
  she　made　a　movement　of　surprise；　and　rose　with　a　kind　of　stately
  grace。　　Theobald　stepped　forward；　took　her　hand　and　kissed　it；　with
  an　indescribable　air　of　immemorial　usage。　　As　he　bent　his　head　she
  looked　at　me　askance；　and　I　thought　she　blushed。
  〃Behold　the　Serafina！〃　said　Theobald；　frankly；　waving　me　forward。
  〃This　is　a　friend；　and　a　lover　of　the　arts；〃　he　added；　introducing
  me。　　I　received　a　smile；　a　curtsey；　and　a　request　to　be　seated。
  The　most　beautiful　woman　in　Italy　was　a　person　of　a　generous　Italian
  type　and　of　a　great　simplicity　of　demeanour。　　Seated　again　at　her
  lamp；　with　her　embroidery；　she　seemed　to　have　nothing　whatever　to
  say。　　Theobald；　bending　towards　her　in　a　sort　of　Platonic　ecstasy；
  asked　her　a　dozen　paternally　tender　questions　as　to　her　health；　her
  state　of　mind；　her　occupations；　and　the　progress　of　her　embroidery；
  which　he　examined　minutely　and　summoned　me　to　admire。　　It　was　some
  portion　of　an　ecclesiastical　vestmentyellow　satin　wrought　with　an
  elaborate　design　of　silver　and　gold。　　She　made　answer　in　a　full　rich
  voice；　but　with　a　brevity　which　I　hesitated　whether　to　attribute　to
  native　reserve　or　to　the　profane　constraint　of　my　presence。　　She　had
  been　that　morning　to　confession；　she　had　also　been　to　market；　and　had
  bought　a　chicken　for　dinner。　　She　felt　very　happy；　she　had　nothing　to
  complain　of　except　that　the　people　for　whom　she　was　making　her
  vestment；　and　who　furnished　her　materials；　should　be　willing　to　put
  such　rotten　silver　thread　into　the　garment；　as　one　might　say；　of　the
  Lord。　　From　time　to　time；　as　she　took　her　slow　stitches；　she　raised
  her　eyes　and　covered　me　with　a　glance　which　seemed　at　first　to　denote