With a pretty gesture of the fragile sewing she ignoredthe hand. “Yes， I dared not trust you. You might paint in theBambino face instead of mine， by mistake.”
She approached the chair and seated herself carelessly. TheBambino slipped meekly through the arm to the floor.
“Zano told me”—he began.
“Yes， I know. He was very tiresome. I thought he wouldnever go. I really feared that we might quarrel. It is too warm.”
She glanced about the shaded room. “You manage it well，” shesaid approvingly. “It is by far the coolest place in the palace.”
“You will be going to the mountains soon？” He saw that shewas talking lightly to cover herself， and fell in with her mood.
He watched her as he arranged the easel and prepared hiscolors. Once he stopped and sketched rapidly for a minute onthe small drawing-board.
She looked inquiry.
“Only an eyebrow，” he explained.
She smiled serenely. “You should make a collection of thoseeyebrows. They must mount into the hundreds by this time.
You could label them ‘Characters of the Lady Lisa.’”
“The Souls of Lady Lisa.”
The lady turned her head aside. “Your distinctions aretoo subtle，” she said. Her eye fell on the Bambino， restingdisgracefully on its wooden head. “Poor little figurine，”
she murmured， reaching a slender hand to draw it up. Shestraightened the tumbled finery absently. It slipped to her lap，and lay there. Her hands were idle， her eyes looking far intospace.
The painter worked rapidly. She stirred slightly. “Sit still，”
he said， almost harshly.
She gave a quick， startled look. She glanced at the rigid littlefigure. She raised it for a minute. Her face grew inscrutable.
Would she laugh or cry？ He worked with hasty， snatchedglances. Such a moment would not come again. A flitting crashstartled him from the canvas. He looked up. The Bambino layin a pathetic heap on the floor， scattered with fragments of arare Venetian glass. She sat erect and imperious， looking withscorn at the wreck. Two great tears welled. They overflowed.
The floods pressed behind them. She dropped her face in herhands. Before he could reach her she had darted from the chair.
The mask of scorn was gone. She fled from him， from herself，blindly， stopping only when the wall of the studio intervened.
She stood with her face buried in the drapery， her shoulderswrenched with sobs.
He approached her. He waited. The Bambino lay with itswooden face staring at the ceiling. It was a crisis for them all.
The next move would determine everything. He must not risktoo much， again. The picture—art—hung on her sobs. Lover—artist？ He paused a second too long.
She turned toward him slowly， serenely. Her glance fell acrosshim， level and tranquil. The traces of ignored tears lay in smilingdrops on her face. The softened scorn played across it. “Shall wefinish the sitting？” she asked， in a conventional voice.
He took up his brush uncertainly. She seated herself，gathering up the scattered work. For a few moments she sewedrapidly. Then the soft fabric fell to her lap. She sat lookingbefore her， unconscious， except that her glance seemed to restnow and then on the fallen figure in its fragments of glass.
For two hours he worked feverishly， painting with swiftestskill and power. At times he caught his breath at the revelationin the face. He was too alert to be human. The artist forgotthe woman. Faithfully， line by line， he laid bare her heart. Shesat unmoved. When at last， from sheer weariness， the brushdropped from his hand， she stepped from the model-stand，and stood at his side. She looked at the canvas attentively. Theinscrutable look of the painted face seemed but a faint reflex ofthe living one.
“You have succeeded well，” she said at last. “We will omitthe Bambino.”
She moved slowly， graciously， toward the door， gathering thefragile sewing as she went. He started toward her—suddenlyconscious of her power—a man again. A parting of thedraperies arrested them. It was Salai， his face agitated， lookingfrom the lady to the painter， inarticulate.
“The Signor”—he gasped—“his horse—they bring him—dead.”
She stirred slightly where she stood. Her eyelids fell. “Go，Salai. Await your master’s commands in the hall below.”
She turned to the painter as the draperies closed. “I trustthat you will make all use of our service， Signor Leonardo，in removing from the palace. The apartments will， I fear， beneeded for relatives. They will come to honor the dead.”
He stood for a moment stupefied， aghast at her control ofpractical， feminine detail； then moved toward her. “Lisa—”
She motioned toward the easel. “Payment for the picture willbe sent you soon.”
“The picture goes with me. It is not finished.”
“It is well.” She bowed mockingly. The little door swungnoiselessly behind her. He was left alone with the portrait. Itwas looking sideways at the fallen Bambino amid the shatteredfragments on the floor.
II
It was the French monarch. He fluttered restlessly aboutthe studio， urbane， enthusiastic. He paused to finger someingenious toy， to praise some drawing or bit of sunlit color thatcaught his fancy. The painter， smiling at the frank enthusiasm，followed leisurely from room to room. The wanderingMilanese villa was a treasure house. Bits of marble and clay，curious mechanical contrivances， winged creatures， bats andcreeping things mingled with the canvases. Color and lineran riot on the walls. A few finished pieces had been placedon easels， in convenient light， for the royal inspection. Eachof these， in turn， the volatile monarch had exalted. He haddeclared that everything in the villa， including the giftedowner， must return with him to France.
“That is the place for men like you！” he exclaimed， standingbefore a small， exquisitely finished Madonna. “What do theseMilanese know of art？ Or the Florentines， for that matter？