"Anch' io son pittore!" I cried. "Unless I am mistaken, you have a
masterpiece on the stocks. If you put all that in, you will do more than
Raphael himself did. Let me know when your picture is finished, and
wherever in the wide world I may be, I will post back to Florence and pay
my respects to--the _Madonna of the future_!"

He blushed vividly and gave a heavy sigh, half of protest, half of
resignation. "I don't often mention my picture by name. I detest this
modern custom of premature publicity. A great work needs silence,
privacy, mystery even. And then, do you know, people are so cruel, so
frivolous, so unable to imagine a man's wishing to paint a Madonna at
this time of day, that I have been laughed at--laughed at, sir!" and his
blush deepened to crimson. "I don't know what has prompted me to be so
frank and trustful with you. You look as if you wouldn't laugh at me. My
dear young man"--and he laid his hand on my arm--"I am worthy of respect.
Whatever my talents may be, I am honest. There is nothing grotesque in a
pure ambition, or in a life devoted to it."

There was something so sternly sincere in his look and tone that further
questions seemed impertinent. I had repeated opportunity to ask them,
however, for after this we spent much time together. Daily for a
fortnight, we met by appointment, to see the sights. He knew the city so
well, he had strolled and lounged so often through its streets and
churches and galleries, he was so deeply versed in its greater and lesser
memories, so imbued with the local genius, that he was an altogether
ideal _valet de place_, and I was glad enough to leave my Murray at home,
and gather facts and opinions alike from his gossiping commentary. He
talked of Florence like a lover, and admitted that it was a very old
affair; he had lost his heart to her at first sight. "It's the fashion
to talk of all cities as feminine," he said, "but, as a rule, it's a