“Why, that’s exactly what I thought,” she returned eagerly.  “And this is so in keeping with my real tastes—­don’t you see?  A real portrait—­I mean a serious work of art, you know—­should always be something more than a mere likeness, should it not?  Don’t you think that to be genuinely good, a portrait must reveal the spirit and character—­must portray the soul, as well as the features?  I do so want this to be a truly great picture—­for your sake.”  Her manner seemed to say that she was doing it all for him.  “I have never permitted any one to paint my portrait before, you know,” she added meaningly.

“You are very kind, Mrs. Taine,” he returned gravely.  “Believe me, I do appreciate this opportunity I shall do my best to express my appreciation here”—­he indicated the canvas on the easel.

When his sitter was posed to his liking, and the artist, with a few bold, sweeping, strokes of the charcoal had roughed out his subject on the canvas, and was bending over his color-box—­he said, casually, to put her at ease, “You came alone this afternoon, did you?”

“Oh, no, indeed!  I brought Louise with me.  I shall always bring her, or some one.  One cannot be too careful, you know,” she added with simulated artlessness.

The painter, studying her face, replied mechanically “No indeed.”

As he turned back to his canvas, Mrs. Taine continued, “I left her in the house, with a box of chocolates and a novel.  I felt that you would rather we were alone.”

“Please don’t look down,” said the artist.  “I want your eyes about here”—­he indicated a picture on the wall, a little back and to the left of where he stood at the easel.

After this, there was silence in the studio, for a little while.  Mrs. Taine obediently kept the pose; her eyes upon the point the artist had indicated; but—­as the man, himself, was almost directly in her line of vision—­it was easy for her to watch him at his work, when his eyes were on his canvas or palette.  The arrangement was admirable in that it relieved the tedium of the hour for the sitter; and gave her face an expression of animated interest that, truthfully fixed upon the canvas, should insure the fame and future of any painter.

It would be quite too much to say that Aaron King became absorbed in his occupation.  Thorough master of the tools of his craft, and of his own technic, as well; he was interested in the mere exercising of his skill, but he in no sense lost himself in his work.  Two or three times, Mrs. Taine saw him glance quickly over his shoulder, as though expecting some one.  Once, for quite a moment, he deliberately turned from his easel to stand at the window, looking up at the distant mountain peaks.  Several times, he seemed to be listening.

“May I talk?” she said at last.

“Why, certainly,” he returned.  “I want you to feel perfectly at ease.  You must be altogether at home here.  Just let yourself go—­say what you like, with no conventional restraints whatever—­consider me a mechanical something that is no more than an article of furniture—­be as thoroughly yourself as if alone in your own room.”