“I am not vexed,” she answered, kindly.

“Then perhaps I may kiss it once more?” he asked.

“Yes,” she answered; and again he raised her hand to his lips.

“Thank you,” he said quietly; “that was kind of you.  Do you see that broken sun-ray yonder?  Is it not golden?  I find it very pleasant to sit here; and I am quite happy, and almost free from pain.  Lately I have been troubled with a dull thudding pain near my heart; but now I feel so strong that I believe I shall finish that Andrea del Sarto after all.”

“Of course you will,” she answered, cheerily, “and I shall have to confess that yours is better than mine!  I am quite willing to yield the palm to you.”

“I must alter the expression of the mouth,” he replied.  “That is the part which has worried me.  I don’t think I told you that I have had a commission to copy Rembrandt’s ‘Old Jew.’  I must set to work on that next week.”

“But you have given me your palette and brushes!” she laughed.

“You must be generous enough to lend them to me,” he said, smiling.  “By the way, I intend to give you my books, all of them.  Some day I must show them to you.  I especially value my philosophical books; they have been my faithful companions through many years.  I believe you do not read Greek.  That is a pity, because you would surely enjoy Aristotle.  I think I must teach you Greek; it would be an agreeable legacy to leave you when I pass away into the Great Silence.”

“I should like to learn,” she said, wondering to hear him speak so unreservedly.  It seemed as if some vast barrier had been rolled aside, and as if she were getting to know him better, having been allowed to glance into his past life, to sympathise with his past mistakes, and with the failure of his ambitions, and with the deadening of his heart.

“You must read AEschylus,” he continued, enthusiastically; “and, if I mistake not, the Agamemnon will be an epoch in your life.  You will find that all these studies will serve to ennoble your art, and you will be able to put mind into your work, and not merely form and colour.  Do you know, I feel so well that I believe I shall not only live to finish Andrea del Sarto, but also to smoke another pipe?”

“You have been too rash to-day,” she laughed, “giving away your pipe and pouch, your palette and brushes, in this reckless manner!  I must get you a new pipe to-morrow.  I wonder you did not part with your venerable Lucretius.”

“That reminds me,” he said, fumbling in his pocket; “I think I have dropped my Lucretius.  I fancy I left it somewhere in the Poets’ Corner.  It would grieve me to lose that book.”

“Let me go and look for it,” she said, and she advanced a few steps, and then came back to him.