had chosen to refrain from conversation. This he rarely did, however, and he lost no time in engaging May's attention.
"It's a pity we haven't time this morning to row out to St. George in the Seaweed," he said. "There's a Madonna there, on the angle of the wall, that's worth seeing. When we do go, you will have to guess whom it is like."
"Probably Pauline," May ventured. "One keeps seeing her in the Madonnas and saints."
"No, it's not your sister," said Kenwick, with unmistakable meaning.
"You don't mean me!" May exclaimed. "No mortal artist could make a Madonna of me!"
"This may not have been done by a mortal artist. At any rate nobody knows who did it. But it's a lovely thing;" and Kenwick paused, with a view to doing full justice to the implication.
"Have you never painted Pietro?" Pauline was asking, as she watched the striking figure of the old gondolier, row-
