The young man's smile had little mirth in it. "We are all like that...." He turned to him sharply: "Why did you want me?"
The painter roused himself. "To sit for me"—with a swift look. "I am hunted! I cannot wipe away your face—as it looked that night. I paint nothing.... Perhaps when you are done in oil I shall rest easy." He laughed shortly and rose to his feet.
The young man rose also with a courteous gesture of the supple hand. "I am at your service, Signor Cevelli, now and always."
Titian's eyes swept the graceful figure. "I must begin at once." He turned away to an easel.
"There was a picture begun, was there not?" asked the young man. He had not moved from his place.
Titian looked up swiftly. "Yes," he said. "Yes."
"Why not finish that?"
The painter waited an awkward moment. He crossed the room and fumbled among the canvases. Then he brought it and placed it on the easel, looking at it.... Slowly the look changed to one of pride, and his hand reached out for a brush.
The young man moved to his side. They looked at it in silence.
"You will not do better." The young man spoke with decision. "Best finish it as it stands—I am ready." He moved to his place by the console, dropping his hand upon it and standing at ease.