By Jennete Lee
IThe soft wind of an Italian spring stirred among the leavesoutside. The windows of the studio， left open to the morningair， were carefully shaded. The scent of mulberry blossomsdrifted in. The chair on the model-stand， adjusted to catch thelight， was screened from the glare； and the light falling on therich drapery flung across its back brought out a dull carminein the slender， bell-shaped flowers near by， and dark gleamsof old oak in the carved chair. The chair was empty； but thetwo men in the studio were facing it， as if a presence were stillthere.
The painter， sketching idly on the edge of his drawing-board，leaned back to survey the child’s head that developed underhis pencil. “She will not come this morning， then？” he askedalmost indifferently.
The older man shook his head. “She said not. She maychange her mind.”
The painter glanced up quickly. He could see nothing inthe face of the other， and he devoted himself anew to thechild’s head. “It does not matter，” he said. “I can work on thebackground—if I feel like working at all，” he added， after amoment’s pause.
The older man stared moodily at the floor. He flicked a pairof long riding-gloves lightly through his fingers. He glancedtoward the easel standing in front of the painter， a little tothe left. “It is barbarous that you have had to waste so muchtime！” he broke out. “How long is it？ Two—no， three yearslast Christmas time since you began. And there it stands.” Thefigure on the easel， erect， tranquil， in the old chair， seemed tohalf shrug its shapely shoulders in defense of the unfinishedface. He looked at it severely. The severity changed tosomething else. “And it is so perfect—damnably perfect，” hesaid irritably.
The artist raised his eyebrows the least trifle. A movement soslight might have indicated scrutiny of his own work. “You areoff for the day？” he asked， glancing at the riding-whip and haton a table by the door.
“Yes； I shall run up， perhaps， as far as Pistoia. Going to seethe new altarpiece.” He took up the hat and whip. He waited，fingering them indecisively. “She seems to me more fickle thanever， this last month or two.”
“I see that she is restless.” The painter spoke in a low tone，half hesitating. “I have wondered whether—I had hoped thatthe Bambino”—he touched the figure lightly with his foot—“might not be needed.”
The other started. He stared at him a full minute. His eyes fell.
“No， no such good luck，” he said brusquely. “It is only caprice.”
The draperies near him parted. A boyish figure appearedin the opening. “Castino wishes me to say that the musicianswait，” said the youth.
The painter rose and came toward him， a smile of pleasureon his face. “Tell them that there will be no sitting to-day，Salai，” he said， laying his hand， half in greeting， half in caress，on the youth’s shoulder.
“Yes， Signor.” Salai saluted and withdrew.
The painter turned again to the older man. “It was a happythought of yours， Zano—the music. She delights in it. I almostcaught， one day last week， while they were playing， that curveabout the lips.”
They stood for a moment in silence， looking toward theportrait. The memory of a haunting smile seemed to flickeracross the shaded light.
“Well， I am off.” The man held out his hand.
The artist hesitated a second. Then he raised the hand in hissupple fingers and placed it to his lips. “A safe journey to you，Signor，” he said， in playful formality.
“And a safe return， to find our Lady Lisa in better temper，”
laughed the other. The laugh passed behind the draperies.
The artist remained standing， his eyes resting absently on therich colors of the Venetian tapestry through which his friendhad disappeared. His face was clouded with thought. He hadthe look of a man absorbed in a problem， who has come uponan unexpected complication.
When the chess-board is a Florentine palace， and the pieces arefifteenth-century human beings， such complications are likely tooccur. The Lady Lisa had more than once given evidence that shewas not carved of wood or ivory. But for three years the situationhad remained the same—the husband unobservant， the ladycapricious and wilful. She had shown the artist more kindnessthan he cared to recall. That was months ago. Of late he had foundscant favor in her sight.... It was better so.
He crossed to the easel， and stood looking down at it. Thequiet figure on the canvas sent back a thrill of pride anddissatisfaction. He gazed at it bitterly. Three years—but aneternal woman. Some day he should catch the secret of her smileand fix it there. The world would not forget her—or him. Heshould not go down to posterity as the builder of a canal！ Thegreat picture at the Dominicans already showed signs of fading.
The equestrian statue of the Duke was crumbling in its clay—noone to pay for the casting. But this picture—For months—withits rippling light of under sea， its soft dreamy background， andin the foreground the mysterious figure.... All was finished butthe Child upon her arm， the smile of light in her eyes.
The lady had flouted the idea. It was a fancy of her husband’s，to paint her as Madonna. She had refused to touch theBambino—sometimes petulantly， sometimes in silent scorn. Thetiny figure lay always on the studio floor， dusty and disarranged.
The artist picked it up. It was an absurd little wooden face in thelace cap. He straightened the velvet mantle and smoothed thecrumpled dress. He stepped to the model-stand and placed thetiny figure in the draped chair. It rested stiffly against the arm.
A light laugh caused him to turn his head. He was kneelingin front of the Bambino.
“I see that you have supplied my place， Sir Painter，” said amocking voice.
He turned quickly and faced the little doorway. She stoodthere， smiling， scornful， her hands full of some delicate flimsystuff， a gold thimble-cap on her finger. “It would not make abad picture，” she said tranquilly， “you and the Bambino.”
His face lighted up. “You have come！” He hastened towardher with outstretched hand.