“Please don’t touch that, Mrs. Taine.  I am not yet ready to show it.”

As she turned from the easel to face him, he took her portrait from where it rested, face to the wall; and placed it upon another easel, saying, “Here is your picture.”

With the painting before her, she talked eagerly of her plans for the artist’s future; how the picture was to be exhibited, and how, because it was her portrait, it would be praised and talked about by her friends who were leaders in the art circles.  Frankly, she spoke of “pull” and “influence” and “scheme”; of “working” this and that “paper” for “write-ups”; of “handling” this or that “critic” and “writer”; of “reaching the committees”; of introducing the painter into the proper inside cliques, and clans; and of clever “advertising stunts” that would make him the most popular portrait painter of his day; insuring thus his—­as she called it—­fame.

The man who had painted the picture of the spring glade, and who had so faithfully portrayed the truth and beauty of Sibyl Andres as she stood among the roses, listened to this woman’s plans for making his portrait of herself famous, with a feeling of embarrassment and shame.

“Do you really think that the work merits such prominence as you say will be given it?” he asked doubtfully.

She laughed knowingly, “Just wait until Jim Rutlidge’s ‘write-up’ appears, and all the others follow his lead, and you’ll see!  The picture is clever enough—­you know it as well as I. It is beautiful.  It has everything that we women want in a portrait.  I really don’t know much about what you painters call art; but I know that when Jim and our friends get through with it, your picture will have every mark of a great masterpiece, and that you will be on the topmost wave of success.”

“And then what?” he asked.

Again, she interpreted his words in the light of her own thoughts, and with little attempt to veil the fire that burned in her eyes, answered, “And then—­I hope that you will not forget me.”

For a moment he returned her look; then a feeling of disgust and shame for her swept over him, and he again turned away, to stand gazing moodily out of the window that looked into the rose garden.

“You seem to be disturbed and worried,” she said, in a tone that implied a complete understanding of his mood, and a tacit acceptance of the things that he would say if it were not for the world.

He laughed shortly—­“I fear you will think me ungrateful for your kindness.  Believe me, I am not.”

“I know you are not,” she returned.  “But don’t think that you had better confess, just the same?”

He answered wonderingly, “Confess?”

“Yes.”  She shook her finger at him, in playful severity.  “Oh, I know what you have been up to all summer—­running wild with your mountain girl!  Really, you ought to be more discreet.”

Aaron King’s face burned as he stammered something about not knowing what she meant.