you where all these pictures are, though I've never seen them,
except one. The two angels by Melozzo da Forli are in St. Peter's at
Rome. The Sposalia of Raphael is in the Breza, Milan. The Andrea del
Sarto is in the Louvre. That's the one I've seen. That little child
of Heaven, playing the lute, is in the predella of an altar-piece by
Vittore Carpaccio in the--in the--please don't tell me--in the
Academia of Venice. Am I right?"

"Absolutely right," said Miss Winwood.

He laughed, delighted. At three and twenty, one--thank goodness!--
is very young. One hungers for recognition of the wonder-inspiring
self that lies hidden beneath the commonplace mask of clay. "And
that," said he--"the Madonna being crowned--the Botticelli--is
in the Uffizi at Florence. Walter Pater talks about it--you know--in
his 'Renaissance'--the pen dropping from her hand--'the
high, cold words that have no meaning for her--the intolerable
honour'! Oh, it's enormous, isn't it?"

"I'm afraid I've not read my Pater as I ought," said Miss Winwood.

"But, you must!" cried Paul, with the gloriously audacious faith of
youth which has just discovered a true apostle. "Pater puts you on
to the inner meaning of everything--in art, I mean. He doesn't
wander about in the air like Ruskin, though, of course, if you get
your mental winnowing machine in proper working order you can get
the good grain out of Ruskin. 'The Stones of Venice' and 'The Seven
Lamps' have taught me a lot. But you always have to be saying to
yourself, 'Is this gorgeous nonsense or isn't it?' whereas in Pater
there's no nonsense at all. You're simply carried along on a full