She passed composedly into the other room.  Hagar greeted the young girl, gave her books and papers, opened the piano, called for some refreshments and presented both with a rose from a bunch upon the table.  The young girl was perfectly happy to be allowed to sit in the courts without and amuse herself while the artist and his model should have their hour with pencil and canvas.

The two then went to the studio again, and, leaving the curtain drawn back, Hagar arranged Mrs. Detlor in position and began his task.  He stood looking at the canvas for a time, as though to enter into the spirit of it again; then turned to his model.  She was no longer Mrs. Detlor, but his subject, near to him as his canvas and the creatures of his imagination, but as a mere woman in whom he was profoundly interested (that at least) an immeasurable distance from him.  He was the artist only now.

It was strange.  There grew upon the canvas Mrs. Detlor’s face, all the woman of it, just breaking through sweet, awesomely beautiful, girlish features; and though the work was but begun there was already that luminous tone which artists labor so hard to get, giving to the face a weird, yet charming expression.

For an hour he worked, then he paused.  “Would you like to see it?” he said.

She rose eagerly, and a little pale.  He had now sketched in more distinctly the figure of the man, changed it purposely to look more like Telford.  She saw her own face first.  It shone out of the canvas.  She gave a gasp of pain and admiration.  Then she caught sight of Telford’s figure, with the face blurred and indistinct.

“Oh!” she said with a shudder.  That—­that is like him.  How could you know?”

“If that is the man,” he said, “I saw him this morning.  Is his name Mark Telford?”

“Yes,” she said, and sank into a chair.  Presently she sprang to her feet, caught up a brush and put it into his hand.  “Paint in his face.  Quick!  Paint in his face.  Put all his wickedness there.”

Hagar came close to her.  “You hate him?” he said, and took the brush.

She did not answer by word, but shook her head wearily, as to some one far off, expressing neither yes nor no.

“Why?” he said quietly—­all their words had been in low tones, that they might not be heard—­“why, do you wear that ring, then?”

She looked at her hand with a bitter, pitiful smile.  “I wear it in memory of that girl who died very young”—­she pointed to the picture—­“and to remind me not to care for anything too much lest it should prove to be a lie.”  She nodded softly to the picture.  “He and she are both dead; other people wear their faces now.”

“Poor woman!” he said in a whisper.  Then he turned to the canvas and, after a moment, filled in from memory the face of Mark Telford, she watching him breathlessly, yet sitting very still.

After some minutes he drew back and looked at it.