“Yes,” he said soberly, “I did.  But why are you afraid?”

“Why, that’s the reason.  I—­I’m afraid to see myself as you see me.”

The man’s voice was gentle with feeling as he answered seriously, “Miss Andres, you, of all the people I have ever known, have the least cause to fear to look at your portrait for that reason.  Come.”

Slowly, she went forward to stand by his side before the picture.

For some time, she looked at the beautiful work into which Aaron King had put the best of himself and of his genius.  At last, turning full upon him, her eyes blue and shining, she said in a low tone, “O Mr. King, it is too—­too—­beautiful!  It is so beautiful it—­it—­hurts.  She seems to, to”—­she searched for the word—­“to belong to the roses, doesn’t she?  It makes you feel just as the rose garden makes you feel.”

He laughed with pleasure, “What a child of nature you are!  You have forgotten that it is a portrait of yourself, haven’t you?”

She laughed with him.  “I had forgotten.  It’s so lovely!” Then she added wistfully, “Am I—­am I really like that?—­just a little?”

“No,” he answered.  “But that is just a little, a very little, like you.”

She looked at him half doubtfully—­sincerely unmindful of the compliment, in her consideration of its truth.  Shaking her head, with a serious smile, she returned slowly, “I wish that I could be sure you are not mistaken.”

“You will permit me to exhibit the picture, will you?” he asked.

“Why, yes! of course!  You made it for people to see, didn’t you?  I don’t believe any one could look at it seriously without having good thoughts, could they?”

“I’m sure they could not,” he answered.  “But, you see, it’s a portrait of you; and I thought you might not care for the—­ah—­” he finished with a smile—­“shall I say fame?”

“Oh!  I did not think that you would tell any one that I had anything to do with it.  Is it necessary that my name should be mentioned?”

“Not exactly necessary”—­he admitted—­“but few women, these days, would miss the opportunity.”

She shook her head, with a positive air.  “No, no; you must exhibit it as a picture; not as a portrait of me.  The portrait part is of no importance.  It is what you have made your picture say, that will do good.”

“And what have I made it say?” he asked, curiously pleased.

“Why it says that—­that a woman should be beautiful as the roses are beautiful—­without thinking too much about it, you know—­just as a man should be strong without thinking too much about his strength, I mean.”

“Yes,” he agreed, “it says that.  But I want you to know that, whatever title it is exhibited under, it will always be, to me, a portrait—­the truest I have ever painted.”

She flushed with genuine pleasure as she said brightly, “I like you for that.  And now let’s try it on Conrad Lagrange and Myra Willard.  You get him, and I’ll run and bring her.  Mind you don’t let Mr. Lagrange in until I get back!  I want to watch him when he first sees it.”