Cora did the exhibitions faithfully.  It was one of the duties she owed to the Lynxville fund, and which she diligently carried out.  The Painter bothered and confused her by many things; he persistently admired all the pictures she liked least, and praised all those she did not care for.  She turned pale with suppressed indignation when he differed from her opinion, and resented his sweeping contempt of her criticisms.

On the strength of a remittance from the prize fund, and in honor of the season, she discarded the sailor hat for a vivid ready-made creation smacking strongly of the Bon Marche.  The weather was warm, and Cora wore mitts, which the Painter thought unpardonable in a city where gloves are particularly cheap.  The mitts were probably fashionable in Lynxville, Massachusetts.  Miss Snell, who rustled about in stiff black silk and bugles, seemed quite oblivious to her friend’s want of taste; she was all excitement, for her pastel portrait—­by some hideous mistake—­had been accepted and hung in one of the exhibitions, and the girls went together on varnishing-day to see it.  There they met the Painter prowling aimlessly about, and Miss Snell was delighted to note his devotion to Cora.  It was a strong proof of his attachment to her, she thought.  The truth was he felt obliged to be civil after her kindness in posing.  He wished he could repay her in some fashion, but since his first visit to Miss Snell’s she had never offered to show him her work again, or asked his advice in any way, and he felt a delicacy about offering his services as a teacher when she gave him so little encouragement.  He fancied, too, that she did not take much interest in his work, and knew she did not appreciate his portrait of her, which was by far the best thing he had ever done.

Her lack of judgment vexed him, for he knew the value of his work, and every day his fellow-painters trooped in to see it, and were loud in their praises.  It would certainly be the clou of any exhibition in which it might be placed.

During one sitting Cora ventured to remark that she thought it a pity he did not intend to make the portrait more complete, and suggested the addition of various accessories which in her opinion would very much improve it.

“It’s by far the most complete thing I have ever done,” he said.  “I sha’n’t touch it again,” and he flung down his brushes in a fit of temper.

She looked at him contemptuously, and putting on her hat, left the studio without another word; and for several weeks he did not see her again.

Then he met her in the street, and begged her to come and pose for a head in his big picture, which he had taken up once more.  His apologies were so abject that she consented, but she ceased to be punctual, and he never could feel quite sure that she would keep her appointments.

Sometimes he would wait a whole afternoon in vain, and one day when she failed to appear at the promised hour he shut up his office and strolled down to the Seine.  There he caught sight of her with a gay party who were about to embark on one of the little steamers that ply up and down the river.