“No, I am always well.  I told you about dear Stella, did I not?  I never had a more delightful companion.”

“So glad you liked her.”

“If only, Arnold, you would like her too.  But I know”—­for Arnold changed color—­“I know one must not interfere in these matters.  But surely one may go so far with a young man one loves as to say, ’Here is a girl of a million.’  There is not, Arnold, I declare, her equal anywhere; a clearer head I never met, or a better educated girl, or one who knows what a man can do, and how he can be helped to do it.”

“Thank you, Clara,” Arnold said coldly; “I dare say I shall discover the young lady’s perfections in time.”

“Not, I think, without some help.  She is not an ordinary girl.  You must draw her out, my dear boy.”

“I will,” he said listlessly.  “I will try to draw her out, if you like.”

“We talked a great deal of you, Arnold,” Clara went on.  “I confided to her some of my hopes and ambitions for you; and I am free to confess to you that she has greatly modified all my plans and calculations.”

“Oh!” Arnold was interested in this “But, my dear Clara, I have my profession.  I must follow my profession.”

“Surely—­surely!  Listen, Arnold, patiently.  Anybody can become an artist—­anybody, of course, who has the genius.  And all kinds of people, gutter people, have the genius.”

“The sun,” said Arnold, just as if he had been Lala Roy, “shines on all alike.”

“Quite so; and there is an immense enthusiasm for art everywhere; but there is no art leader.  There is no one man recognized as the man most competent to speak on art of every kind.  Think of that.  It is Stella’s idea entirely.  This man, when he is found, will sway enormous authority; he will become, if he has a wife able to assist him, an immense social power.”

“And you want me to become that man?”

“Yes, Arnold.  I do not see why you should not become that man.  Cease to think of becoming President of the Royal Academy, yet go on painting; prove your genius, so as to command respect; cultivate the art of public speaking; and look about for a wife who will be your right hand.  Think of this seriously.  This is only a rough sketch, we can fill in the details afterward.  But think of it.  Oh, my dear boy! if I were only a man, and five-and-twenty, with such a chance before me!  What a glorious career is yours, if you choose!  But of course you will choose.  Good gracious, Arnold! who is that?”

She pointed to the canvas on the easel, where Iris’s face was like the tale of Cambuscan, half told.

“It is no one you know, Clara.”

“One of your models?” She rose and examined it more closely through her glasses.  “The eyes are wonderful, Arnold.  They are eyes I know.  As if I could ever forget them!  They are the same eyes, exactly the same eyes.  I have never met with any like them before.  They are the eyes of my poor, lost, betrayed Claude Deseret.  Where did you pick up this girl, Arnold?  Is she a common model?”