She laughed gaily.  “There, there, never mind—­I forgive you—­now that you are safely back in civilization again.  I know you artists, and how you must have your periods of ah—­relaxation—­with rather more liberties than the common herd.  Just so you are careful that the world doesn’t know too much.”

At this frank revelation of her mind, the man stood amazed.  For the construction she put upon his relation with the girl whose pure and gentle comradeship had led him to greater heights in his art than he had ever before attained, he could have driven this woman from the studio he felt that she profaned.  But what could he say?  He remembered Conrad Lagrange’s counsel when James Rutlidge had seen the girl at their camp.  What could he say that would not injure Sibyl Andres?  To cover his embarrassment, he forced a laugh and answered lightly, “Really, I am not good at confessions.”

“Nor I at playing the part of confessor,” she laughed with him.  “But, just the same, you might tell me what you think of yourself.  Aren’t you just a little ashamed?”

The artist had moved to a position in front of her portrait; and, as he looked upon the painted lie, his answer came.  “Rather let me tell you what I think of you, Mrs. Taine.  And let me tell you in the language I know best.  Let me put my answer to your charges here,” he touched her portrait.

Almost, his reply was worthy of Conrad Lagrange, himself.

“I don’t quite understand,” she said, a trifle put out by the turn his answer had taken.

“I mean,” he explained eagerly, “that I want to repaint your portrait.  You remember, I wrote, when I returned Mr. Taine’s generous check, that I was not altogether satisfied with it.  Give me another chance.”

“You mean for me to come here again, to pose for you?—­as I did before?”

“Yes,” he answered, “just as you did before.  I want to make a portrait worthy of you, as this is not.  Let me tell you, on the canvas, what I cannot—­” he hesitated then said deliberately—­“what I dare not put into words.”

The woman received his words as a veiled declaration of a passion he dared not, yet, openly express.  She thought his request a clever ruse to renew their meetings in the privacy of his studio, and was, accordingly delighted.

“Oh, that will be wonderful!—­heavenly!” she cried, springing to her feet.  “Can we begin at once?  May I come to-morrow?”

“Yes,” he answered, “come to-morrow.”

“And may I wear the Quaker gown?”

“Yes, indeed!  I want you just as you were before—­the same dress, the same pose.  It is to be the same picture, you understand, only a better one—­one more worthy of us, both.  And now,” he continued hurriedly “don’t you think that we should return to the house?”

“I suppose so,” she answered regretfully—­lingering.

The artist was already opening the door.