But presently she turned her face toward the great lion of St. Mark, and presented to his view what he instantly decided to be the loveliest profile he had ever seen--a profile as clearly cut as that of a head on an antique cameo, but with a peculiarly delicate grace of its own, and with coloring as exquisite as the tints of a flower. She was smiling as she looked at the lion--who stonily regarded her from his pedestal--and she made such a delightful picture in her youth and beauty, that the man behind her held his breath, fearing lest some chance movement should betray his presence and cause her to disappear. But, instead of this, she was presently joined by another figure, that of a young man, who stepped through the window and walked up to her side with an air of easy familiarity. “By Jove!” said the newcomer, “I don’t wonder that you come out here for relief from those miles of pictures! Their effect is positively stupefying.” “To _you_, perhaps, it may be,” said the young lady, in a very sweet voice, with a slightly mocking accent. “But it was not because _I_ felt stupefied that I came out, but because the greater picture tempted me. When one has Venice before one’s eyes, one hardly cares to look at paintings.” “That is exactly my opinion,” said the young man, “so let us go down and get into a gondola and float about. That is the principal thing to do, besides lounging in the piazza.” “Then suppose you go and lounge in the piazza,” said the young lady. “I am very well satisfied where I am,” and as she spoke she turned again toward the railing, with the air of one who did not mean to stir. “Oh, I am very well satisfied to stay here--with you,” said her companion, leaning beside her. At this point it occurred to the unobserved listener behind that the time had come for him to retire. Solitude was charming, and charming also was the contemplation of a single graceful figure in the foreground of a noble picture; but a conventional pair of young people engaged in a conventional flirtation was more than he could endure. With a sense of disgust and vexation he rose, and entered again the Hall of Council. Over this magnificent apartment various groups were scattered, some studying the frescoes of battles and triumphs, others following the frieze of Doges’ portraits, and pausing before the vacant panel across which is thrown a black curtain and on which is painted the name of Marino Faliero, and the short sentence, “_Decapitati pro criminibus_,” while others were occupied with Tintoretto’s vast _Paradiso_. Among the latter was a pretty, fashionably dressed young woman, who, seated on a chair before the immense picture, had transferred her attention from it to the costumes of a pair of English girls, whose dresses were as ill-fitting as their complexions were blooming, and who appeared to be studying the great composition in detail, unconscious of the critical glances of the animated fashion-plate behind them.