There was no one at home, the Chinaman said.  He did not know where the artist was.  He had gone off somewhere with Mr. Lagrange and the dog.  Perhaps they would return in a few minutes; perhaps not until dinner time.

Mrs. Taine was exceedingly anxious to see Mr. King.  She was going away, and must see him, if possible, before she left.  She would come in, and, if Yee Kee would get her pen and paper, would write a little note, explaining—­in case she should miss him.  The Chinaman silently placed the writing material before her, and disappeared.

Before sitting down to her letter, the woman paced the floor restlessly, in nervous agitation.  Her face, when she had thrown back the veil, appeared old and worn, with dark circles under the eyes, and a drawn look to the weary, downward droop of the lips.  As she moved about the room, nervously fingering the books and trifles upon the table or the mantle, she seemed beside herself with anxiety.  She went to the window to stand looking out as if hoping for the return of the artist.  She went to the open door of his bedroom, her hands clenched, her limbs trembling, her face betraying the agony of her mind.

With Louise, she was leaving that evening, at four o’clock, for the East—­with the body of her husband.  She could not go without seeing again the man whom, as Mr. Taine had rightly said, she loved—­loved with the only love of which—­because of her environment and life—­she was capable.  She still believed in her power over him whose passion she had besieged with all the lure of her physical beauty, but that which she had seen in his face as he had watched the girl musician the night of the dinner, filled her with fear.  Presently, in her desperation, when the artist did not return, she seated herself at the table to put upon paper, as best she could, the things she had come to say.

Her letter finished, she looked at her watch.  Calling the Chinaman, she asked for a key to the studio, explaining that she wished to see her picture.  She still hoped for the artist’s return and that her letter would not be necessary.  She hoped, too, that in her portrait, which she had not yet seen, she might find some evidence of the painter’s passion for her.  She had not forgotten his saying that he would put upon the canvas what he thought of her, nor could she fail to recall his manner and her interpretation of it as he had worked upon the picture.

In the studio, she stood before the easel, scarce daring to draw the curtain.  But, calling up in her mind the emotions and thoughts of the hours she had spent in that room alone with the artist, she was made bold by her reestablished belief in his passion and by her convictions that were founded upon her own desires.  Under the stimulating influence of her thoughts, a flush of color stole into her cheeks, her eyes grew bright with the light of triumphant anticipation.  With an eager hand she boldly drew aside the curtain.