trained skill of an artist who was, at least, master of his own technic.
But--if one might say so--the painting was more a picture than a portrait.
The face upon the canvas was the face of Mrs. Taine, indeed, in that the
features were her features; but it was also the face of a sweetly modest
Quaker Maid. The too perfect, too well cared for face of the beautiful
woman of the world was, on the canvas, given the charm of a natural
unconscious loveliness. The eyes that had watched the artist with such
certain knowledge of life and with the boldness born of that knowledge
were, in the picture, beautiful with the charm of innocent maidenhood.
The very coloring and the arrangement of the hair were changed subtly to
express, not the skill of high-priced beauty-doctors and of fashionable
hair-dressers, but the instinctive care of womanliness. The costume that,
when worn by the woman, expressed so fully her true character; in the
picture, became the emblem of a pure and deeply religious spirit.

Mrs. Taine turned impulsively to the artist, and, placing her hand upon
his arm, exclaimed in delight, "Oh, is it true? Am I really so beautiful?"

The artist laughed. "You like it?"

"Like it? How could I help liking it? It is lovely."

"I am glad," he returned. "I hoped it would please you."

"And you"--she asked, with eager eyes--"are you satisfied with it? Does it
seem good to you?"

"Oh, as for that," he answered, "I suppose one is never satisfied. I know
the work is good--in a way. But it is very far from what it should be, I
fear. I feel that, after all, I have not made the most of my opportunity."