she asked in a low tone.

"Surely not"--he returned calmly--"you are coming to-morrow, with the
others, aren't you?" Her husband with James Rutlidge and Louise Taine were
invited for the next day, to view the portrait.

"Oh, but that will be so different!" She loosed the wrap she wore, and
threw it aside with an indescribable familiar gesture. "You don't realize
what these hours have meant to me--how could you? You do not live in my
world. Your world is--is so different You do not know--you do not know."
With a sudden burst of passion, she added, "The world that I live in is
hell; and this--this--oh, it has been heavenly!"

Her words, her voice, the poise of her figure, the gesture with
outstretched arms--it was all so nearly an invitation, so nearly a
surrender of herself to him, that the man started forward impulsively.
For the moment he forgot his work--he forgot everything--he was conscious
only of the woman who stood before him. But even as the light of triumph
blazed up in the woman's eyes, the man halted,--drew back; and his face
was turned from her as he listened to the sweetly appealing message of the
gentle spirit that made itself felt in the music of that hidden violin. It
was as though, in truth, the mountains, themselves,--from their calm
heights so remote from the little world wherein men live their baser
tragedies,--watched over him. "Don't you think we had better proceed with
our work?" he said calmly.

The light in the woman's eyes changed to anger which she turned away to
hide. Without replying, she went to her place and assumed the pose; and,
as she had watched him day after day when his eyes were upon the canvas,
she watched him now. Since that first day, when she had questioned him