"Il Divino? Who's he?" I returned stupidly.
"Angelo, to be sure."
"Is that his nom—de—de—brush?" I couldn't think of the French word, so I used the English one instead.
"It's a nickname his enemies have given him by antiphrasis, because he's so unlike Raphael."
"Can't leave his easel," I said, repeating my uncle's words. "Do you mean to say he is going to work on a gloomy day like this? Why, he won't be able to see, let alone paint."
"Nulla dies sine lineâ, you know. He lives in his studio, and can hardly be persuaded to leave it. It's a marvel he remained here so long this morning. He's dying to make a name."
"Do you think he will?"
"Can't say, I'm sure. It will not be for want of toil and study if he doesn't. He is occupied now on a great work which he fondly hopes will reverse the previous judgment of art-critics respecting his abilities."
"What is this great work?"
"'The Fall of Cæsar' I think he calls it, or 'The Triumph of Cæsar,' or—or something of the sort. I know it's a classical subject."