"I am indebted to you!" said the young man politely. He lifted his hand with a courtly gesture, half mocking and half sincere. It dropped easily to the console beside him.
With rapid touches Titian sketched it as it lay. His face glowed with satisfaction, and he worked with eager haste. "Good!—Good!" he murmured under his breath. "It will be great. You will see.... You will see." He hummed softly to himself, his glance flashing up and down the tall figure before him, inserting a touch here and a line there, with swift decision.
The warm air of the studio was very quiet. Voices drifted up from the Grand Canal, and now and then the sound of bells.
The young man's eyes looked dreamily before him. He had forgotten the studio and its occupant. He might have been listening to pleasant words—to the sound of a voice.
"There!" Titian dropped the brush and stepped back. "We have done for to-day." He surveyed the canvas critically.
The young man stepped to his side. He looked earnestly at the daubs and lines of paint that streaked it. A smile crept over his dark face. "You paint like no other," he said quietly.
Titian nodded. "Like no other," he repeated the words with satisfaction. "They will not call it like Palma, this time—nor like Giorgione, nor Signor Somebody Else." He spoke with mild irritation. His eyes travelled over the lines of glowing canvas that covered the walls.
The young man's glance followed them. "No," he assented, "you have outstepped them all.... You used them but to climb on." He moved toward a canvas across the room.
"But this—" he laid his hand lightly on the frame—"this was after Palma?" He turned his eyes with a look of inquiry.
Titian nodded curtly.