“Why should I look at you,” she opposed him with low-voiced obstinacy, “if I want to go on looking at the tree?” Her words sounded to her indescribably childish and silly, but she was near to tears.

“You are afraid to look at me,” said Mario; and the old taunt succeeded. Joanna turned her face to him. More beautiful she was to him then than any picture he had formed of her. He leaned nearer, gripping the back of the bench with one hand.

“I feel as if once, centuries ago, I had kept you in a cage, and you liked it,” he said. “And so that I might have your portrait painted, without the painter falling in love with you, I dressed you as a young man. I shall take you to see that portrait in London; and later when we go to Italy together, I shall get Maddalena, my sister, to make you a suit of black cloth with a linen chemise open at the neck, like the girl in the picture. Maddalena is clever at dress. She will teach you also how to clothe yourself as a woman; for even in this you are ignorant. The coat you wear now is so hideous I shudder at it. Yes, Maddalena shall teach you much. But I shall teach you more. Then, after many years, when at last your youth is gone and your beauty, you will be a fit companion for men. What do you say? Will you stay and go to school there?” Mario’s voice rose as he waved an arm at the darkening University. “Or will you come away and learn from me? There you will have books and bones. Here with me” – touching his breast – “you will have all that is of value, in either books or bones – you will have life. And very soon you must decide.”

VI