With a skilful turn the boat had come to rest at the foot of a flight of stairs leading to a richly carved doorway. The young man leaped out and ran up the steps. The great silent door swung open to his touch, and he disappeared within.
Titian, standing by his easel, looked up quickly. "You are come!" He sprang forward, holding out his hands.
The young man took them, looking into the welcoming eyes. "I am come," he said slowly.
"Why did you send for me?" he asked after a pause. His eyes sought the glowing walls of color, with curious, eager glance.
"Nothing there!" The painter shook his head with a wistful smile. "I have not done a stroke since that last night—the night I rowed you out to the lagoon."
"Why not?" They were seated by a window; the tide of life drifted below.
Titian shook his head again. "I was broken at first—too strained and weak. My fingers would not follow my thoughts." He glanced down at them ruefully. "And then—" His voice changed. "Then they came for me to finish his pictures.... There has been no time."
"Did he want you to do it?" asked the other in a low voice.
Titian's gaze returned the question. "I shall never know—He would not see me—to the last. He never spoke.... When he was gone they came for me. I did the work and asked no questions—for friendship's sake." He sighed gently and his glance fell on the moving, changing crowd below.
"His name is water," he said slowly. "Ask for the fame of Giorgione—They will name you—Titian!" He laughed bitterly.