Giorgione smiled. Then his face darkened. "My frescos! Oh, my frescos!" he murmured tragically. "But you will help, Zarato. You will not go paint for dukes and popes?" The tone was half laughing and half querulous.
The young man roused himself and looked at him questioningly. He drew his hand across his eyes. "What is it?" he said dreamily. "What is it?" His face flushed. "Help you? Yes, I will help you—if—I can."
II
"A little more to the right, please."
Titian's eyes studied the figure before him thoughtfully. His voice murmured half-articulate words, and his glance ran swiftly from the sitter to his canvas.
"That is good." He gave a sigh of satisfaction. "Can you hold that—ten minutes, say!" He had taken up his brush and was painting with swift strokes.
The young man before him smiled a little. The dark, handsome face lighted under it and glowed. "I will do my best." The quiet irony in the tone laughed gently.
Titian smiled back. "I forget that you are of the craft. You have too much of the grand air, Zarato, to belong to us."