At times, when, under his intense gaze, she drew the cloak of her pretenses hurriedly about her, he sat before his picture without touching the canvas, waiting; or, perhaps, he paced the floor; until, with skillful words, her fears were banished and she was again herself.  Then, with quick eye and sure, ready hand, he wrought into the portrait upon the easel—­so far as the power was given him—­all that he saw in the face of the woman who—­posing for him, secure in the belief that he was painting a lie—­revealed her true nature, warped and distorted as it was by an age that, demanding realism in art, knows not what it demands.  Always, when the sitting was finished, he drew the curtain to hide the picture; forbidding her to look at it until he said that it was finished.

Much of the time, when he was not in the studio at work, the painter spent with Mrs. Taine and her friends, in the big touring car, and at the house on Fairlands Heights.  But the artist did not, now, enter into the life of Fairlands’ Pride for gain or for pleasure—­he went for study—­as a physician goes into the dissecting room.  He justified himself by the old and familiar argument that it was for his art’s sake.

Sibyl Andres, he seldom saw, except occasionally, in the early morning, in the rose garden.  The girl knew what he was doing—­that is, she knew that he was painting a portrait of Mrs. Taine—­and so, with Myra Willard, avoided the place.  But Conrad Lagrange now, made the neighboring house in the orange grove his place of refuge from Louise Taine, who always accompanied Mrs. Taine,—­lest the world should talk,—­but who never went as far as the studio.

But often, as he worked, the artist heard the music of the mountain girl’s violin; and he knew that she, in her own beautiful way, was trying to help him—­as she would have said—­to put the mountains into his work.  Many times, he was conscious of the feeling that some one was watching him.  Once, pausing at the garden end of the studio as he paced to and fro, he caught a glimpse of her as she slipped through the gate in the Ragged Robin hedge.  And once, in the morning, after one of those afternoons when he had gone away with Mrs. Taine at the conclusion of the sitting, he found a note pinned to the velvet curtain that hid the canvas on his working easel.  It was a quaint little missive; written in one of the girl’s fanciful moods, with a reference to “Blue Beard,” and the assurance that she had been strong and had not looked at the forbidden picture.

As the work progressed, Mrs. Taine remarked, often, how the artist was changed.  When painting that first picture, he had been so sure of himself.  Working with careless ease, he had been suave and pleasant in his manner, with ready smile or laugh.  Why, she questioned, was he, now, so grave and serious?  Why did he pause so often, to sit staring at his canvas, or to pace the floor?  Why did he seem to be so uncertain—­to be questioning, searching,