sufficient gravity.

The blossoms came and went upon the pomegranate and almond trees in the
garden, and some of the earliest roses were in their prime; everywhere
was so full leaf that the wantonest of the strutting nymphs was forced
into a sort of decent seclusion, but the careless naiad of the fountain
burnt in sunlight that subtly increased its fervors day by day, and it
was no longer beginning to be warm, it was warm, when one morning
Ferris and Miss Vervain sat on the steps of the terrace, waiting for
Don Ippolito to join them at breakfast.

By this time the painter was well on with the picture of Don Ippolito
which the first sight of the priest had given him a longing to paint,
and he had been just now talking of it with Miss Vervain.

"But why do you paint him simply as a priest?" she asked. "I should
think you would want to make him the centre of some famous or romantic
scene," she added, gravely looking into his eyes as he sat with his
head thrown back against the balustrade.

"No, I doubt if you _think_," answered Ferris, "or you'd see that
a Venetian priest doesn't need any tawdry accessories. What do you
want? Somebody administering the extreme unction to a victim of the
Council of Ten? A priest stepping into a confessional at the Frari--
tomb of Canova in the distance, perspective of one of the naves, and so
forth--with his eye on a pretty devotee coming up to unburden her
conscience? I've no patience with the follies people, think and say
about Venice!"

Florida stared in haughty question at the painter.