brought back strange provincial altarpieces in this territory—­marvels in crimson and gold, and a riddle for the connoisseur.  Then the talk reached higher latitudes.  He mused aloud about that very simple reaction which we call the sense of beauty and have resolutely sophisticated ever since criticism existed—­I intent meanwhile and eating most of a mallard as sanguine as a decollation of the Baptist.  By the cheese Anitchkoff seemed confident of my sympathy, and I, having found nothing amiss in him except an imperfect enjoyment of the pleasures of the table, was planning how least imprudently might be raised the topic of the Del Puente Giorgione.  But it was he who spoke first.  At the coffee he asked me with admirable simplicity what people said about the affair, and I answered with equal candour.

“You too have wondered,” he continued.

“Of course, but nothing worse,” I replied.

Then with the hesitancy of a man approaching a dire chagrin, and yet with a rueful appreciation of the humour of the predicament that I despair of reproducing, he began: 

“It happened about this way.  When I first came to Italy and began to meet the friends of Mantovani, they told me of an early Giorgione he owned but rarely showed.  He used to speak of it affectionately as ‘il mio Zorzi,’ to distinguish it perhaps from the more important example he had sold to one of our dilettante iron-masters.  The little unfinished portrait I heard of, from those whose opinion is sought, as a superlatively lovely thing.  It was mentioned with a certain awe; to have seen it was a distinction.  For years I hoped my time would come, but the opportunity was provokingly delayed.  How should you feel if Mrs. Warrener should show you all her things but the great Botticelli?” I nodded understandingly.  Mrs. Warrener, for a two minutes’ delay in an appointment, had debarred me her Whistlers for a year.

“That’s the way Mantovani treated me,” Anitchkoff continued.  “Whenever I dared I asked for the ‘Zorzi,’ and he always put me off with a smile.  That mystified me, for I knew he took a paternal pride in my studies, but I never got any more satisfactory answer from him than that the ‘Zorzi’ was strong meat for the young; one must grow up to it, like S——­ and P——­ and C——­ (naming some of his closest disciples).  These allusions he made repeatedly and with a queer sardonic zest.  Occasionally he would volunteer the encouragement—­for I had long ago dropped the subject—­’Cheer up, my boy; your turn will come.’  When he so Quixotically gave the picture to the Marquesa del Puente, it seemed, though, as if my turn could never come, but I noted that he had been true to his doctrine that the ‘Zorzi’ was only for the mature; the Del Puente was said to be some years his senior.  One knew exasperatingly little about her.  It was said vaguely that Mantovani entertained a tender friendship for her, having been her husband’s comrade in arms in half a dozen Carlist revolts.  That seemed enough to explain the gift.”