the sketches in the big portfolios that were so invitingly open; looked with awe upon the brushes stuck in the big Chinese jar—­upon the palettes, and at the tubes of color; flitting to the window that looked out upon her garden, and back to the great, north light with its view of the distant mountains; and again and again, paused to stand with her hands clasped behind her, in front of the big easel with its canvas hidden under the velvet curtain.  Then she must try the chairs, the oriental couch, and even the stool—­where she had seen the artist sitting, sometimes, at his work, when she had watched him from the arbor; and last—­in a pretty make believe—­she tried the seat on the model throne, as though posing herself, for her portrait.

Suddenly, with a startled cry, she sprang to her feet; then shrank back, white and trembling—­her big eyes fixed with pleading fear upon the man who stood in the open doorway, regarding her with a curious, triumphant smile.  It was James Rutlidge.

Sibyl, occupied with her childlike delight, had failed to hear the automobile when it stopped in front of the house.  Finding no one in the house the man had gone on to the studio, where—­with the assurance of an intimate acquaintance—­he had pushed open the door that was standing ajar.

At the girl’s frightened manner, the man laughed.  Closing the door, he said, with an insinuating sneer, “You were not expecting me, it seems.”

His words aroused Sibyl from her momentary weakness.  Rising, she said calmly, “I was not expecting any one, Mr. Rutlidge.”

Again he laughed—­with unpleasant meaning.  “You certainly look to be very much at home.”  He moved confidently to the easel stool and, seating himself continued with a leering smile, “What’s the matter with my taking the artist’s place for a little while—­at least, until he comes?”

The girl was too innocent to understand his assumption but her pure mind could not fail to sense the evil in his words.

“I had permission to come here this afternoon,” she said—­her voice trembling a little with the fear that she did not understand.  “Won’t you go, please?  Neither Mr. King nor Mr. Lagrange are at home.”

“I do not doubt your having permission to come here,” he returned, with meaning stress upon the word, “permission”.  “I see you even carry a key to this really delightful room.”  He motioned with his head toward the door where he had seen the key in the lock, as she had left it.

At this, she grasped a hint of the man’s thought and, for an instant, drew hack in shame.  Then, suddenly with a burst of indignant anger, she took a step toward him, demanding clearly; “Are you saying that I am in the habit of coming here to meet Mr. King?”

He laughed mockingly.  “Really, my dear, no one, seeing you, now, could blame the man for giving you a key to this place where he is popularly supposed to be undisturbed.  Mr. King is neither such a virtuous saint, nor so engrossed in his art, as to resent the companionship of such a vision of loveliness—­simply because it comes in the form of good flesh and blood.  Why be angry with me?”