“Hercules wore a lion’s skin—­not a tiger’s.  He killed the Nemean lion.”

“Did he?” inquired Orsino indifferently.  “It is all the same—­they do not know it, and they want a tiger.  When I left they were debating whether they wanted it alive or dead.  I thought of buying one at the Prati di Castello, but it seemed cheaper to borrow the skin of you.  May I take it?”

Sant’ Ilario laughed.  Orsino rolled up the great hide and carried it to the door.

“Who is the lady, my boy?”

“I never saw her before—­a certain Donna Maria d’Aranjuez d’Aragona.  I fancy she must be a kind of cousin.  Do you know anything about her?”

“I never heard of such a person.  Is that her own name?”

“No—­she seems to be somebody’s widow.”

“That is definite.  What is she like?”

“Passably handsome—­yellow eyes, reddish hair, one eye wanders.”

“What an awful picture!  Do not fall in love with her, Orsino.”

“No fear of that—­but she is amusing, and she wants the tiger.”

“You seem to be in a hurry,” observed Sant’ Ilario, considerably amused.

“Naturally.  They are waiting for me.”

“Well, go as fast as you can—­never keep a woman waiting.  By the way, bring the skin back.  I would rather you bought twenty live tigers at the Prati than lose that old thing.”

Orsino promised and was soon in his cab on the way to Gouache’s studio, having the skin rolled up on his knees, the head hanging out on one side and the tail on the other, to the infinite interest of the people in the street.  He was just congratulating himself on having wasted so little time in conversation with his father, when the figure of a tall woman walking towards him on the pavement, arrested his attention.  His cab must pass close by her, and there was no mistaking his mother at a hundred yards’ distance.  She saw him too and made a sign with her parasol for him to stop.

“Good-morning, Orsino,” said the sweet deep voice.

“Good-morning, mother,” he answered, as he descended hat in hand, and kissed the gloved fingers she extended to him.

He could not help thinking, as he looked at her, that she was infinitely more beautiful even now than Madame d’Aragona.  As for Corona, it seemed to her that there was no man on earth to compare with her eldest son, except Giovanni himself, and there all comparison ceased.  Their eyes met affectionately and it would have been, hard to say which was the more proud of the other, the son of his mother, or the mother of her son.  Nevertheless Orsino was in a hurry.  Anticipating all questions he told her in as few words as possible the nature of his errand, the object of the tiger’s skin, and the name of the lady who was sitting to Gouache.

“It is strange,” said Corona.  “I have never heard your father speak of her.”

“He has never heard of her either.  He just told me so.”