A curious yet not unpleasant drowsiness stole over me, in which I heard the humming of the bees at the open window, the singing of the birds, and the voices of people in the hotel gardens, all united in one continuous murmur that seemed a long way off.

I saw the sunshine and the shadow--I saw the majestic Leo stretched full length near the easel, and the slight supple form of Raffaello Cellini standing out in bold outline against the light; yet all seemed shifting and mingling strangely into a sort of wide radiance in which there was nothing but varying tints of colour.

And could it have been my fancy, or did I actually SEE the curtain fall gradually away from my favourite picture, just enough for the face of the "Angel of Life" to be seen smiling down upon me?
I rubbed my eyes violently, and started to my feet at the sound of the artist's voice.
"I have tried your patience enough for to-day," he said, and his words sounded muffled, as though they were being spoken through, a thick wall.

"You can leave me now if you like." I stood before him mechanically, still holding the book he had lent me clasped in my hand.

Irresolutely I raised my eyes towards the "Lords of our Life and Death." It was closely veiled.