Again, that knowing smile.  “So I understand, of course.  Under the circumstances, you would scarcely expect it, would you?”

Sibyl, not in the least understanding what the woman meant, answered doubtfully, “No.  I—­I did not wish it shown as my portrait.”

Mrs. Taine, studying the girl’s face, became very earnest in her kindly interest; as if, moved out of the goodness of her heart, she stooped from her high place to advise and counsel one of her own sex, who was so wholly ignorant of the world.  “I fear, my dear, that you know very little of artists and their methods.”

To which the girl replied, “I never knew an artist before I met Mr. King, this summer, in the mountains.”

Still watching her face closely, Mrs. Taine said, with gentle solicitude, “May I tell you something for your own good, Miss Andres?”

“Certainly, if you please, Mrs. Taine.”

“An artist,” said the older woman, carefully, with an air of positive knowledge, “must find the subjects for his pictures in life.  As he goes about, he is constantly on the look-out for new faces or figures that are of interest to him—­or, that may be used by him to make pictures of interest.  The subjects—­or, I should say, the people who pose for him—­are nothing at all to the artist—­aside from his picture, you see—­no more than his paints and brushes and canvas.  Often, they are professional models, whom he hires as one hires any sort of service, you know.  Sometimes—­” she paused as if hesitating, then continued gently—­“sometimes they are people like yourself, who happen to appeal to his artistic fancy, and whom he can persuade to pose for him.”

The girl’s face was white.  She stared at the woman with pleading, frightened dismay.  She made a pitiful attempt to speak, but could not.

The older woman, watching her, continued, “Forgive me, dear child.  I do not wish to hurt you.  But Mr. King is so careless.  I told him he should be careful that you did not misunderstand his interest in you.  But he laughed at me.  He said that it was your innocence that he wanted to paint, and cautioned me not to warn you until his picture was finished.”  She turned to look at the picture on the easel with the air of a critic.  “He really has caught it very well.  Aaron—­Mr. King is so good at that sort of thing.  He never permits his models to know exactly what he is after, you see, but leads them, cleverly, to exhibit, unconsciously, the particular thing that he wishes to get into his picture.”

When the tortured girl had been given time to grasp the full import of her words, the woman said again,—­turning toward Sibyl, as she spoke, with a smiling air that was intended to show the intimacy between herself and the artist,—­“Have you seen his portrait of me?”

“No,” faltered Sibyl.  “Mr. King told me not to look at it.  It has always been covered when I have been in the studio.”