opposite the bed," he said one day. He had advanced so far toward
recovery as to be able to sit up against his pillows.

"Don't you like it?" She turned in her chair by his bedside.

"I worship it. Do you know, she has a strange look of you? When I
was half off my head I used to mix you up together. She has such a
generous and holy bigness--the generosity of the All-woman."

Ursula flushed at the personal tribute, but let it pass without
comment. "It's not a bad photograph; but the original--that is too
lovely."

"It's in the Church of Santa Maria Formosa in Venice," said Paul
quickly.

He had passed through a period of wild enthusiasm for Italian
painting, and had haunted the National Gallery, and knew by heart
Sir Charles Eastlake's edition of Kugler's unique textbook.

"Ah, you know it?" said Ursula.

"I've never been to Venice," replied Paul, with a sigh. "It's the
dream of my life to go there."

She straightened herself on her chair. "How do you know the name of
the church?"

Paul smiled and looked round the walls, and reflected for a moment.
"Yes," said he in answer to his own questioning, "I think I can tell