all seemed shifting and mingling strangely into a sort of wide radiance in which there was nothing but varying tints of colour.  And could it have been my fancy, or did I actually see the curtain fall gradually away from my favourite picture, just enough for the face of the “Angel of Life” to be seen smiling down upon me?  I rubbed my eyes violently, and started to my feet at the sound of the artist’s voice.

“I have tried your patience enough for to-day,” he said, and his words sounded muffled, as though they were being spoken through, a thick wall.  “You can leave me now if you like.”

I stood before him mechanically, still holding the book he had lent me clasped in my hand.  Irresolutely I raised my eyes towards the “Lords of our Life and Death.”  It was closely veiled.  I had then experienced an optical illusion.  I forced myself to speak—­to smile —­to put back the novel sensations that were overwhelming me.

“I think,” I said, and I heard myself speak as though I were somebody else at a great distance off—­“I think, Signor Cellini, your Eastern wine has been too potent for me.  My head is quite heavy, and I feel dazed.”

“It is mere fatigue and the heat of the day,” he replied quietly.  “I am sure you are not too dazed, as you call it, to see your favourite picture, are you?”

I trembled.  Was not that picture veiled?  I looked—­there was no curtain at all, and the faces of the two Angels shone out of the canvas with intense brilliancy!  Strange to say, I felt no surprise at this circumstance, which, had it occurred a moment previously, would have unquestionably astonished and perhaps alarmed me.  The mistiness of my brain suddenly cleared; I saw everything plainly; I heard distinctly; and when I spoke, the tone of my voice sounded as full and ringing as it had previously seemed low and muffled.  I gazed steadfastly at the painting, and replied, half smiling: 

“I should be indeed ‘far gone,’ as the saying is, if I could not see that, signor!  It is truly your masterpiece.  Why have you never exhibited it?”

“Can you ask that?” he said with impressive emphasis, at the same time drawing nearer and fixing upon me the penetrating glance of his dark fathomless eyes.  It then seemed to me that some great inner force compelled me to answer this half-inquiry, in words of which I had taken no previous thought, and which, as I uttered them, conveyed no special meaning to my own ears.

“Of course,” I said slowly, as if I were repeating a lesson, “you would not so betray the high trust committed to your charge.”

“Well said!” replied Cellini; “you are fatigued, mademoiselle.  Au revoir!  Till to-morrow!” And, throwing open the door of his studio, he stood aside for me to pass out.  I looked at him inquiringly.

“Must I come at the same time to-morrow?” I asked.

“If you please.”

I passed my hand across my forehead perplexedly, I felt I had something else to say before I left him.  He waited patiently, holding back with one hand the curtains of the portiere.