The painter's eyes were on it, doubtingly. "But you wear it gloved," he stammered.
"It is not for the world to see," murmured the young man quietly. "It is our secret—hers and mine. It was her last touch on my hand."
Titian's eyes stared at him.
"You did not know?" The lips smiled at him. "It was her hand that did it." He touched the glove lightly. "Giorgione stood over her—and guided it...." His voice ceased with a catch.
Titian's eyes were full of tears. "Poor Violante!" he murmured. "Poor child!"
The other nodded slightly. "It has pledged us forever—forever." He repeated the words in low, musical exultation. The locket suspended from its slender chain amid the folds of his cloak, swung forward as he moved. A hand stayed it—the gloved hand.
There was silence between them. Voices from the canal floated up, laughter-laden. The June sunshine flooded in.
Titian roused himself with a sigh. "It shall be called 'The Portrait of a Gentleman,'" he said. He laid his hand with swift affection on the arm beside him.
The young man smiled back. His hand closed firmly over the one on his arm. "Call it 'The Man With the Glove,'" he said quietly. "It is the open secret that remains unguessed."