"'Timanthes, unable to express the death-emotion on the face of Agamemnon, conceals the head of the king in a purple robe; Da Vinci in "The Last Supper," despairing of diffusing a ray of divinity over the features of the Saviour, lays down his pencil, and leaves nothing but a blank oval for the face. "'Who shall succeed where such masters fail? Echo answers--Vasari! A bold statement, but a true one! "'Mr. Vasari might reasonably and with perfect fidelity to historic truth have adopted the method of Timanthes, since, every schoolboy knows, that Cæsar fell with his head concealed in the folds of his toga; but, disdaining the pusillanimity of such a method, the artist has permitted the whole of Cæsar's face to be seen, for the purpose of delineating with ghastly realism the expression of a dead face. The effect of the sunlight quivering on----'" At this point I paused to look up at Daphne, whose eyes were eloquently expressive of the interest she was taking in the subject of my reading, and remarked quietly: "To be continued in our next." "Go on," she said eagerly. "Don't stop." It was with a certain amount of malice that I replied: "There is no more." "No more? It doesn't end in the middle of a sentence?" "Probably not. But some one has been kind enough to tear off the bottom of this sheet just at the very line I have arrived at." "Oh, how annoying! Isn't it continued at the top of the next column?" "Fortunately--no." "Fortunately?" "Yes; I'm tired of it; it's the essence of dulness. I marvel that the writer is still at large." "Who can have torn it," she said, taking no notice of my gibe. "Not uncle, I'm sure. Oh, I know now. It was Angelo himself that did it. Don't you remember? This morning, when he lit his cigar." The memory of this last event invested the newspaper article with an interest which it did not before possess in my eyes. I recalled the artist's uneasy manner when asking whether my uncle or myself had read the critique on his picture, his evident satisfaction when he found we had not, the triumphant air with which he had lit his cigar with a piece of newspaper; and this conduct disposed me to think that he had designedly torn off the bottom of the column containing the end of the article. The more I dwelt on the matter the more my opinion became strengthened. I was as anxious now as Daphne to read the critique to the end. "How curious that Angelo should tear the very paper referring to himself!" remarked Daphne. "Very!" I responded drily. "Can't we get another copy of this _Standard_?" "Not at Rivoli. Rome or Paris is the nearest place to send to, and then it will be at least four days in arriving. Besides, it's an old copy, and very likely no more are left." "How provoking! You'll send to-morrow for another copy, won't you Frank?" "Most readily. I, too, wish to see the end of this article." "Why, you said just now that it was the essence of dulness." "Yes, but you know what a variable mortal I am."