some day?--or, rather, dance for me?"

"O, most gladly, signorina!" exclaimed Donatello. "See; it shall be like
this."

And forthwith he began to dance, and flit about the studio, like an
incarnate sprite of jollity, pausing at last on the extremity of one
toe, as if that were the only portion of himself whereby his frisky
nature could come in contact with the earth. The effect in that shadowy
chamber, whence the artist had so carefully excluded the sunshine, was
as enlivening as if one bright ray had contrived to shimmer in and
frolic around the walls, and finally rest just in the centre of the
floor.

"That was admirable!" said Miriam, with an approving smile. "If I can
catch you on my canvas, it will be a glorious picture; only I am afraid
you will dance out of it, by the very truth of the representation, just
when I shall have given it the last touch. We will try it one of these
days. And now, to reward you for that jolly exhibition, you shall see
what has been shown to no one else."

She went to her easel, on which was placed a picture with its back
turned towards the spectator. Reversing the position, there appeared the
portrait of a beautiful woman, such as one sees only two or three, if
even so many times, in all a lifetime; so beautiful, that she seemed to
get into your consciousness and memory, and could never afterwards be
shut out, but haunted your dreams, for pleasure or for pain; holding
your inner realm as a conquered territory, though without deigning to
make herself at home there.