Mrs. Taine turned impulsively to the artist, and, placing her hand upon his arm, exclaimed in delight, “Oh, is it true?  Am I really so beautiful?”

The artist laughed.  “You like it?”

“Like it?  How could I help liking it?  It is lovely.”

“I am glad,” he returned.  “I hoped it would please you.”

“And you”—­she asked, with eager eyes—­“are you satisfied with it?  Does it seem good to you?”

“Oh, as for that,” he answered, “I suppose one is never satisfied.  I know the work is good—­in a way.  But it is very far from what it should be, I fear.  I feel that, after all, I have not made the most of my opportunity.”  He spoke with a shade of sadness.

Again, she put out her hand impulsively to touch his arm, as she answered eagerly, “Ah, but no one else will say that.  No one else will dare.  It will be the sensation of the year—­I tell you.  Just you wait until Jim Rutlidge sees it.  Wait until it is hung for exhibition, and he tells the world about it.  Everybody worth while will be coming to you then.  And I—­I will remember these hours with you, and be glad that I could help—­even so little.  Will you remember them, too, I wonder.  Are you glad the picture is finished?”

“And are you not glad?” he returned meaningly.

They had both forgotten the painting before them.  They did not see it.  They each saw only the other.

“No, I am not glad,” she said in a low tone.  “People would very soon be talking if I should come here, alone—­now that the picture is finished.”

“I suppose in any case you will be leaving Fairlands soon, for the summer,” he returned slowly.

“O listen,”—­she cried with quick eagerness—­“we are going to Lake Silence.  What’s to hinder your coming too?  Everybody goes there, you know.  Won’t you come?”

“But would it be altogether safe?” He reflected doubtfully.

“Why, of course,—­Mr. Taine, Louise, and Jim,—­we are all going together—­don’t you see?  I don’t believe you want to go,” she pouted.  “I believe you want to forget.”

Her alluring manner, the invitation conveyed in her words and voice, the touch of her hand on his arm, and the nearness of her person, fairly swept the man off his feet.  With quick passion, he caught her hand, and his words came with reckless heat.  “You know that I will not forget you.  You know that I could not, if I would.  Do you think that I have been so engrossed with my brushes and canvas that I have been unconscious of you?  What is that painted thing beside your own beautiful self?  Do you think that because I must turn myself into a machine to make a photograph of your beauty, I am insensible to its charm?  I am not a machine.  I am a man; as you are a woman; and I—­”

She checked him suddenly—­stepping aside with a quick movement, and the words, “Hush, some one is coming.”

The artist, too, heard voices, just without the door.