“I don’t want your likeness; I’ve got it already,” said Piero, “only I’ve made you look frightened. I must take the fright out of it for Bacchus.”
As he was speaking, Piero laid down the book and went to look among some paintings, propped with their faces against the wall. He returned with an oil-sketch in his hand.
“I call this as good a bit of portrait as I ever did,” he said, looking at it as he advanced.
“Yours is a face that expresses fear well, because it’s naturally a bright one. I noticed it the first time I saw you. The rest of the picture is hardly sketched; but I’ve painted you in thoroughly.”
Piero turned the sketch, and held it towards Tito’s eyes. He saw himself with his right-hand uplifted, holding a wine-cup, in the attitude of triumphant joy, but with his face turned away from the cup with an expression of such intense fear in the dilated eyes and pallid lips, that he felt a