doubt whether there is any picture to be seen. I fancy, myself, that if
one were to get into his studio, one would find something very like the
picture in that tale of Balzac's--a mere mass of incoherent scratches and
daubs, a jumble of dead paint!"

I listened to this pungent recital in silent wonder. It had a painfully
plausible sound, and was not inconsistent with certain shy suspicions of
my own. My hostess was not only a clever woman, but presumably a
generous one. I determined to let my judgment wait upon events. Possibly
she was right; but if she was wrong, she was cruelly wrong! Her version
of my friend's eccentricities made me impatient to see him again and
examine him in the light of public opinion. On our next meeting I
immediately asked him if he knew Mrs. Coventry. He laid his hand on my
arm and gave me a sad smile. "Has she taxed _your_ gallantry at last?"
he asked. "She's a foolish woman. She's frivolous and heartless, and
she pretends to be serious and kind. She prattles about Giotto's second
manner and Vittoria Colonna's liaison with 'Michael'--one would think
that Michael lived across the way and was expected in to take a hand at
whist--but she knows as little about art, and about the conditions of
production, as I know about Buddhism. She profanes sacred words," he
added more vehemently, after a pause. "She cares for you only as some
one to band teacups in that horrible mendacious little parlour of hers,
with its trumpery Peruginos! If you can't dash off a new picture every
three days, and let her hand it round among her guests, she tells them in
plain English that you are an impostor!"

This attempt of mine to test Mrs. Coventry's accuracy was made in the
course of a late afternoon walk to the quiet old church of San Miniato,
on one of the hill-tops which directly overlook the city, from whose
gates you are guided to it by a stony and cypress-bordered walk, which