“He lived over three hundred years ago,” continued the young man, “but if he were here now he would probably say to you, ‘My dear demoselle, will you oblige me by taking off your cap and sitting over there where the sun can shine on your lovely head?’ Only he would say it in Italian, for he probably couldn’t speak English.”
Elizabeth pulled down the rim of her cap closer over her curling locks. She was afraid the young man was making fun of her.
“What are you doing that for?” asked the artist. “Don’t you like your hair?”
“I hate it,” said Elizabeth in low, tense tones. “I should like to dye it black or brown or even green.”
“Oh no, not green; you wouldn’t really rather have it green. It would make you so conspicuous.”
“Yes, even green. Nobody likes red hair. My family and my friends try to comfort me by saying it is auburn, but I know, myself, that it is red, for the people that don’t like me always say so.”
“Then it is because they are mean and jealous. The great Titian adored hair the color of yours and painted lovely females with just such many, many times.”
“Did he really?” Elizabeth said in delighted surprise. “I wish I could see some of them.”
“Perhaps you will some day. I have a copy of one. I wish I had it here to convince you. I did it when I was abroad and they say it is a pretty good copy, Elfie, if I do say it as shouldn’t.”
“I would give anything to see it,” declared Elizabeth, “and I wish Corinne Barker could see it, too.”