hesitating?  The woman thought that she knew.  Rejoicing in her fancied victory—­all but won—­she looked forward to the triumphant moment when this splendid man should be swept from his feet by the force of the passion she thought she saw him struggling to conceal.  Meanwhile she tempted him by all the wiles she knew—­inviting him with eyes and lips and graceful pose and meaning gesture.

And Aaron King, with clear, untroubled eye seeing all; with cool brain understanding all; with steady, skillful hand, ruled supremely by his purpose, painted that which he saw and understood into his portrait of her.

So they came to the last sitting.  On the following evening, Mrs. Taine was giving a dinner at the house on Fairlands Heights, at which the artist was to meet some people who would be—­as she said—­useful to him.  Eastern people they were; from the accredited center of art and literature; members of the inner circle of the elect.  They happened to be spending the season on the Coast, and she had taken advantage of the opportunity to advance the painter’s interests.  It was very fortunate that her portrait was to be finished in time for them to see it.

The artist was sorry, he said, but, while it would not be necessary for her to come to the studio again, the picture was not yet finished, and he could not permit its being exhibited until he was ready to sign the canvas.

“But I may see it?” she asked, as he laid aside his palette and brushes, and announced that he was through.

With a quick hand, he drew the curtain.  “Not yet; please—­not until I am ready.”

“Oh!” she cried with a charming air of submitting to one whose wish is law, “How mean of you!  I know it is splendid!  Are you satisfied?  Is it better than the other?  Is it like me?”

“I am sure that it is much better than the other,” he replied.  “It is as like you as I can make it.”

“And is it as beautiful as the other?”

“It is beautiful—­as you are beautiful,” he answered.

“I shall tell them all about it, to-morrow night—­even if I haven’t seen it.  And so will Jim Rutlidge.”

Aaron King and Conrad Lagrange spent that evening at the little house next door.  The next morning, the artist shut himself up in his studio.  At lunch time, he would not come out.  Late in the afternoon, the novelist went, again, to knock at the door.

The artist called in a voice that rang with triumph, “Come in, old man, come in and help me celebrate.”

Entering, Conrad Lagrange found him; sitting, pale and worn, before his picture—­his palette and brushes still in his hand.

And such a picture!

A moment, the novelist who knew—­as few men know—­the world that was revealed with such fidelity in that face upon the canvas, looked; then, with weird and wonderful oaths of delight, he caught the tired artist and whirled him around the studio, in a triumphant dance.