Titian looked at him doubtfully. "We shall change the length and perhaps the pose," he said thoughtfully.
"Why?" The question came sharply.
The painter colored under it. "I had planned—to make much of the—hands." He hesitated between the words. "The change will be simple," he added hastily.
"Would you mind painting me as I am?" There was a note of insistence behind the words.
Titian's eyes leaped at the question. They scanned the figure before him with quick, gleaming lights.
The young man read their depths. "Go on," he said coolly. "When my feelings are hurt I will tell you."
The painter took up his brushes, working with swift haste. Fingers and brush and thumb flew across the canvas. Splotches of color were daubed on and rubbed carelessly in and removed with infinite pains. Over the picture crept a glow of living color and of light.
At last the brush dropped. "I can do no more—to-day," he said slowly. His eyes dwelt on the picture lovingly.
The young man came across and joined him, looking down at the glowing canvas. His lips curved in a sweet smile.
"You thought I was ashamed of it?" The gloved hand lifted itself slightly. "I would not part with it—not for all the gold of Venice!"