"No, I don't think it's _that_, quite," his brother returned, with afalse air of scrupulosity, which was part of their game with each other.He looked some more at the picture, and then he glanced from it at me."There's a somewhat curious tale connected with that sketch."

"0h, well, tell it," Minver exclaimed. "Tell it! I suppose I can stand itagain. Acton's never heard it, I believe. But you needn't make a show ofsparing him. I _couldn't_ stand that."

"I certainly haven't heard the story," I exclaimed, "and if I had I would betoo polite to own it."

Minver's brother looked towards the open door over his shoulder, andMinver interpreted for him: "She's not coming. I'll give you duewarning."

"It occasionally was before we were married, but not much before, and the picture wasa sort of wedding present for my wife, though Blakey made a show ofgiving it to me. Said he had painted it for me, because he had aprophetic soul, and felt inside his bones that I was going to want a pictureof the place where I first met her. You see, it's the little villa hermother had taken that winter on the Viale Petrarca, just outside ofFlorence. It _was_ the first place I met her, but not the last."