“I wonder what made you put that Santa Barbara of Palma Vecchio just opposite the bed,” he said one day.  He had advanced so far toward recovery as to be able to sit up against his pillows.

“Don’t you like it?” She turned in her chair by his bedside.

“I worship it.  Do you know, she has a strange look of you?  When I was half off my head I used to mix you up together.  She has such a generous and holy bigness—­the generosity of the All-woman.”

Ursula flushed at the personal tribute, but let it pass without comment.  “It’s not a bad photograph; but the original—­that is too lovely.”

“It’s in the Church of Santa Maria Formosa in Venice,” said Paul quickly.

He had passed through a period of wild enthusiasm for Italian painting, and had haunted the National Gallery, and knew by heart Sir Charles Eastlake’s edition of Kugler’s unique textbook.

“Ah, you know it?” said Ursula.

“I’ve never been to Venice,” replied Paul, with a sigh.  “It’s the dream of my life to go there.”

She straightened herself on her chair.  “How do you know the name of the church?”

Paul smiled and looked round the walls, and reflected for a moment.  “Yes,” said he in answer to his own questioning, “I think I can tell you where all these pictures are, though I’ve never seen them, except one.  The two angels by Melozzo da Forli are in St. Peter’s at Rome.  The Sposalia of Raphael is in the Breza, Milan.  The Andrea del Sarto is in the Louvre.  That’s the one I’ve seen.  That little child of Heaven, playing the lute, is in the predella of an altar-piece by Vittore Carpaccio in the—­in the—­please don’t tell me—­in the Academia of Venice.  Am I right?”

“Absolutely right,” said Miss Winwood.

He laughed, delighted.  At three and twenty, one—­thank goodness!—­ is very young.  One hungers for recognition of the wonder-inspiring self that lies hidden beneath the commonplace mask of clay.  “And that,” said he—­“the Madonna being crowned—­the Botticelli—­is in the Uffizi at Florence.  Walter Pater talks about it—­you know—­in his ’Renaissance’—­the pen dropping from her hand—­’the high, cold words that have no meaning for her—­the intolerable honour’!  Oh, it’s enormous, isn’t it?”

“I’m afraid I’ve not read my Pater as I ought,” said Miss Winwood.

“But, you must!” cried Paul, with the gloriously audacious faith of youth which has just discovered a true apostle.  “Pater puts you on to the inner meaning of everything—­in art, I mean.  He doesn’t wander about in the air like Ruskin, though, of course, if you get your mental winnowing machine in proper working order you can get the good grain out of Ruskin.  ‘The Stones of Venice’ and ’The Seven Lamps’ have taught me a lot.  But you always have to be saying to yourself, ‘Is this gorgeous nonsense or isn’t it?’ whereas in Pater there’s no nonsense at all.  You’re simply carried along on a full stream of Beauty straight into the open Sea of Truth.”