phantom of Theophile Mineur would never intrude.  Yet they made no demonstration of their affection—­they would have been happy to sit and dream on this moon-haunted wall, near this nocturnal pool, forever.  Hubert pictured Berenice in her room, behind bolted doors, lying across the bed weeping, or else staring in sullen repentance at the white ceiling.  Why had she indulged in such vandalism?  The portrait was utterly destroyed by the flaring smear laid on with a brush in the hand of an enraged young animal.  What sort of a woman might not develop from this tempestuous girl!  He knew that he had mortally offended her by his rudeness.  But it was after, not before, the cruel treatment of his beloved work.  Yet, how like a man had been his rapid succumbing to transitory temptation!  For it was transitory—­of that he was sure.  The woman he loved, with a reverent love, was next to him, and if his pulse did not beat as furiously at this moment as earlier in the day, why—­all the better.  He was through forever with his boyish recklessness.

“Another peculiar thing,” broke in Elaine, as if she had been thinking aloud, “is that Berenice has been pestering Eloise for her father’s address.”

“Her father’s address?” echoed her companion.

“Yes; but whether she wrote to him Eloise could not say.”

“Why should she write to him?  She dislikes him—­dislikes him almost as much—­” he was about to pronounce his own name.  She caught him up.

“Yes, that is the singular part of this singular affair.  She felt slighted because you painted my portrait before hers.  I confess I have had my misgivings.  You should have been more considerate of her feelings, Hubert, my friend.”  She paused and sighed.  For him the sigh was a spark that blew up the magazine of his firmest resolves.  He had been touching her hands fraternally.  His arm embraced her so that she could not escape, as this middle-aged man told his passion with the ardour of an enamoured youth.

“You dare not tell me you do not care for me!  Elaine—­let us reason.  I loved you since the first moment I met you.  It is folly to talk of Mineur and my friendship for him.  I dislike, I despise him.  It is folly to talk of Berenice and her childish pranks.  What if she did cruelly spoil my work, our work!  She will get over it.  Girls always do get over these things.  Let us accept conditions as they are.  Say you love me—­a little bit—­and I’ll be content to remain at your side, a friend, always that.  I’ll paint you again—­much more beautifully than before.”  He was hoarse from the intensity of his feelings.  The moon had risen and tipped with its silver brush the tops of the trees.

“And—­my husband?  And Berenice?”

“Let things remain as they are.”  He pressed her to him.  A crackling in the underbrush and a faint plash in the lake startled them asunder.  They listened with ears that seemed like beating hearts.  There was no movement; only a night bird plaintively piped in the distance and a clock struck the quarter.