"William!" cried Kitty, "
do put that fool down and come here; one sees
it splendidly!"
She was standing in one of the choir-stalls of San Giorgio Maggiore,
somewhat raised above the point where Ashe had been studying his German
hand-book.
"My dear, if this man doesn't know, who does!" cried Ashe, flourishing
his volume in front of him as he obeyed her.
"'Dans le royaume des aveugles,'" said Kitty, contemptuously. "As if any
German could even begin to understand Tintoret! But--don't talk!"
And clasping both hands round Ashe's arm, she stood leaning heavily upon
him, her whole soul gazing from the eyes she turned upon the picture,
her lips quivering, as though, from some physical weakness, she could
only just hold back the tears with which, indeed, the face was charged.
She and Ashe were looking at that "Last Supper" of Tintoret's which
hangs in the choir of San Giorgio Maggiore at Venice.
It is a picture dear to all lovers of Tintoret, breathing in every line
and group the passionate and mystical fancy of the master.
The scene passes, it will be remembered, in what seems to be the
spacious guest-chamber of an inn.
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