“Yes,” replied her uncle.  “He would doubtless have given to the world many pictures fully equal to Titian’s.  Indeed, to me, he seems to have been gifted with even a superior quality of refinement.  We may see it in the contrast between his Venus in the Dresden Gallery, whose photograph you know, and Titian’s two Venuses in the Uffizi, which you studied so carefully when in Florence.  But there are very few examples of Giorgione’s paintings in existence, and critics are still quarrelling over almost all that are attributed to him.  Probably the most popular are the Dresden Venus, which has only recently been rescued from Titian and given to its rightful author, and the Concert, which you remember in the Pitti Gallery, Florence, about which there is considerable dispute, some critics thinking it an early work by Titian.”

“Why did the artists not sign their pictures?” rather impatiently interrupted Malcom.

“Even a signature does not always settle questions,” replied his uncle, “for it is by no means an unknown occurrence for a gallery itself to christen some doubtful picture.  But to go on:—­

“In Venice there is but one painting by Giorgione which is undoubtedly authentic.  I will take you to the Giovanelli Palace, where it is.  It is called Family of Giorgione.  He was fond of introducing three figures into his compositions,—­you remember the Pitti Concert,—­there are also three in this Giovanelli picture—­a gypsy woman, a child, and a warrior.  The landscape setting is exceedingly beautiful, and the whole glows with Giorgione’s own color.

“About Titian,” continued he, “you have read, and can easily read so much that I shall not talk long.  His whole story is like a romance; his success and fame boundless; his pictures scattered among all important galleries.”

“Has Venice a great many?” queried Malcom.

“No, Venice possesses comparatively few; and, strangely enough, these are not most characteristic of the painter.  His name, you know, is almost indissolubly connected with noble portraits, magnificent mythological representations, and those ideal pictures of beautiful women of which he painted so many, and which wrought such a revolution in the character of succeeding art.  Hardly any of these, though so entirely in keeping with the brilliant city, are in Venice to-day; we must go elsewhere, to Madrid, to Paris, Florence, Rome, Dresden, and Berlin to find them.  One mythological picture only, Venus and Adonis, is in the Academy, and one portrait of a Doge, doubtfully ascribed to Titian, is in the Ducal Palace.”

“Then what pictures are here?” asked Bettina, as Mr. Sumner paused.

“His greatest religious paintings, those gorgeous church pictures, most of which were painted in his youth, are here.”

“May I interrupt a moment,” queried Barbara, “to ask what you meant when you said that some of Titian’s pictures wrought a revolution in art?”