open door. "Hush!" said the painter, still under the spell of that moment
so big with possibilities. "Listen,"--with a gesture, he checked her
advance,--"listen."

A look of haughty surprise flashed over the woman's too perfect features.
Then, as her ear caught the tones of the violin, she half turned--but only
for a moment.

"Very clever, isn't it," she said as she came forward "It must be old
Professor Becker. He lives somewhere around here, I understand. They say
he is very good."

The artist looked at her for an instant, in amazement Then, as his normal
mind asserted itself, he burst into an embarrassed laugh.

At her look of puzzled inquiry, he said, "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Taine.
I did not realize how harshly I greeted you. The fact is I--I was
dreaming"--he turned suggestively toward the canvas upon the easel. "You
see I was expecting you--I was thinking--then the music
came--and--well--when you actually appeared in the flesh, I did not for
the moment realize that it was really you."

"How charming of you!" she returned. "To be made the subject of an
artist's dream--really it is quite the nicest compliment I have ever
received. Tell me, do you like me in this?" she slipped the wrap she wore
from her shoulders, and stood before him, gowned in the simple, gray dress
of a Quaker Maid. Deliberately, she turned her beautiful self about for
his critical inspection. Moving to and fro, sitting, half-reclining,
standing--in various graceful poses she invited, challenged, dared, his
closest attention--professional attention, of course--to every curve and