into which of course we do not intrude.  Immediately behind herself she drops a curtain of silence which shuts away every such sign of her past.  But there are other signs of that past which she cannot hide and which it is our privilege, our duty, the province of our art, to read.  They are written on her face, on her hands, on her bearing; they are written all over her—­the bruises of life’s rudenesses, the lingering shadows of dark days, the unwounded pride once and the wounded pride now, the unconquerable will, a soaring spirit whose wings were meant for the upper air but which are broken and beat the dust.  All these are sublime things to paint in any human countenance; they are the footprints of destiny on our faces.  The greatest masters of the brush that the world has ever known could not have asked for anything greater.  When you behold her, perhaps some of you may think of certain brief but eternal words of Pascal:  ‘Man is a reed that bends but does not break.’  Such is your model, then, a woman with a great countenance; the fighting face of a woman at peace.  Now out upon the darkened battle-field of this woman’s face shines one serene sun, and it is that sun that brings out upon it its marvelous human radiance, its supreme expression:  the love of the mother.  Your model is the beauty of motherhood, the sacredness of motherhood, the glory of motherhood:  that is to be the portrait of her that you are to paint.”

He stopped.  Their faces glowed; their eyes disclosed depths in their natures never stirred before; from out those depths youthful, tender creative forces came forth, eager to serve, to obey.  He added a few particulars: 

“For a while after she is posed you will no doubt see many different expressions pass rapidly over her face.  This will be a new and painful experience to which she will not be able to adapt herself at once.  She will be uncomfortable, she will be awkward, she will be embarrassed, she will be without her full value.  But I think from what I discovered while talking with her that she will soon grow oblivious to her surroundings.  They will not overwhelm her; she will finally overwhelm them.  She will soon forget you and me and the studio; the one ruling passion of her life will sweep back into consciousness; and then out upon her features will come again that marvelous look which has almost remodeled them to itself alone.”

He added, “I will go for her.  By this time she must be waiting down-stairs.”

As he turned he glanced at the screens placed at that end of the room; behind these the models made their preparations to pose.

“I have arranged,” he said significantly, “that she shall leave her things down-stairs.”

It seemed long before they heard him on the way back.  He came slowly, as though concerned not to hurry his model, as though to save her from the disrespect of urgency.  Even the natural noise of his feet on the bare hallway was restrained.  They listened for the sounds of her footsteps.  In the tense silence of the studio a pin-drop might have been noticeable, a breath would have been audible; but they could not hear her footsteps.  He might have been followed by a spirit.  Those feet of hers must be very light feet, very quiet feet, the feet of the well-bred.