“Pardon me, signorina,” he said, with an apologetic cough.  “I see you are drawing.  Perhaps you could kindly tell me where one can obtain permission to copy in this gallery.”

“I do not know, signore,” she answered, in a low, rich voice.  “No one ever copies here.  The prince is never, here, and his major-domo comes only twice a year.  He was here two weeks ago, so it will be a long time before he will return.”

“But you seem to be copying,” the young man ventured to remonstrate.

“Ah, sanctissima!” she; cried, with a vivid gesture of deprecation.  “No, signore, I am not copying.  I am a poor, ignorant thing, signore, not an artist.  There was once a kind foreigner who lodged with us; he was an artist, a most famous artist, and he amused himself with me while I was a child, and taught me to draw a little.”

“And perhaps you would kindly allow me to look at your drawing?”

Cranbrook was all in a flutter; he was amazed at his own temerity, but the situation filled him with a delicious sense of adventure, and an irresistible impulse within him urged him on.  The girl had risen, and, without the slightest embarrassment or coquettish reluctance handed him her drawing-board.  He saw at a glance that she was sincere in disclaiming the name of an artist.  The drawing was a mere simple outline of a group, representing Briseis being led away from her lover by the messengers of Agamemnon.  The king stood on one side ready to receive her, and on the other, Achilles, with averted face, in an attitude of deep dejection.  The natural centre of the group, however, was the figure of Briseis.  The poise of her classic head as she looked back over her shoulder at her beloved hero was full of the tenderest suggestions.  She seemed to offer no resistance to the messengers, but her reluctant, lingering steps were more expressive than any violent demonstration.  Cranbrook saw all this in the antique relief, but found it but feebly, and, as it were, stammeringly rendered in the girl’s drawing.  The lines were firmly and accurately traced and the proportions were approximately correct; but the deeper sentiment of the group had evidently escaped her, and the exquisite delicacy of modelling she had not even attempted to imitate.  Cranbrook had in his heart to admit that he was disappointed.  He feared that it was rude to return the board without a word of favorable comment, but he disdained to resort to any of those ingenious evasions which serve so conveniently as substitutes for definite judgments.  The girl, in the meanwhile, stood looking into his face with an air of frank curiosity.  It was not his opinion of her work, however, which puzzled her.  She had never been accustomed to flattery, and had no idea of claiming a merit which she was well aware did not belong to her.  She seemed rather to be wondering what manner of man her critic might be, and whether it would be safe to appeal to him for information on some subjects which lay beyond the reach of her own faculties.