curiosity. He turned to the latter as if to ask the name of their
host, but the painter laid a finger on his lips with an air of
mystery, and the young man, keenly interested, kept silence, hoping
that sooner or later some word of the conversation might enable him to
guess the name of the old man, whose wealth and genius were
sufficiently attested by the respect which Porbus showed him, and by
the marvels of art heaped together in the picturesque apartment.

Poussin, observing against the dark panelling of the wall a
magnificent portrait of a woman, exclaimed aloud, "What a magnificent
Giorgione!"

"No," remarked the old man, "that is only one of my early daubs."

"Zounds!" cried Poussin naively; "are you the king of painters?"

The old man smiled, as if long accustomed to such homage. "Maitre
Frenhofer," said Porbus, "could you order up a little of your good
Rhine wine for me?"

"Two casks," answered the host; "one to pay for the pleasure of
looking at your pretty sinner this morning, and the other as a mark of
friendship."

"Ah! if I were not so feeble," resumed Porbus, "and if you would
consent to let me see your Beautiful Nut-girl, I too could paint some
lofty picture, grand and yet profound, where the forms should have the
living life."

"Show my work!" exclaimed the old man, with deep emotion. "No, no! I