"Good-morning, Orsino," said the sweet deep voice.
"Good-morning, mother," he answered, as he descended hat in hand, and kissed the gloved fingers she extended to him.
He could not help thinking, as he looked at her, that she was infinitely more beautiful even now than Madame d'Aragona. As for Corona, it seemed to her that there was no man on earth to compare with her eldest son, except Giovanni himself, and there all comparison ceased. Their eyes met affectionately and it would have been, hard to say which was the more proud of the other, the son of his mother, or the mother of her son. Nevertheless Orsino was in a hurry. Anticipating all questions he told her in as few words as possible the nature of his errand, the object of the tiger's skin, and the name of the lady who was sitting to Gouache.
"It is strange," said Corona. "I have never heard your father speak of her."
"He has never heard of her either. He just told me so."
"I have almost enough curiosity to get into your cab and go with you."
"Do, mother." There was not much enthusiasm in the answer.
Corona looked at him, smiled, and shook her head.
"Foolish boy! Did you think I was in earnest? I should only spoil your amusement in the studio, and the lady would see that I had come to inspect her. Two good reasons—but the first is the better, dear. Go—do not keep them waiting."
"Will you not take my cab? I can get another."