liquid without humidity, indescribable in colouring and form.  Their full cup and the accents which experience had graven under them were something he had never dreamed of realizing.  It was a Cosway; but a Cosway broadened and without a hint of genteel namby-pamby or overelaborate finesse.  Hubert was fairly satisfied.  Madame Mineur had little to say.  During the sittings she seldom spoke, and if their eyes met, the richness of her glance was a compensation for her lack of loquacity.  Hubert did not complain.  He was in no hurry.  To be under the same roof with this adorable woman was all that he asked.

The day after he had finished his picture, he returned to Chalfontaine for the midday breakfast.  Berenice was absent—­in her room with a headache, her mother explained.  The weather was sultry.  He questioned Elaine during the meal.  Had Berenice’s temper improved?  They passed out to the balcony where their coffee was served, and when he lighted his cigarette, Madame Mineur begged to be excused.  She had promised Cousin Eloise to pay some calls.  He strolled over the lawn, watching the hummocks of white clouds which piled up in architectural masses across the southern sky.  Then he remembered the portrait and mounted to the atelier.  As he put his hand on the knob of the door he thought he heard some one weeping.  Suddenly the door was pulled from his grasp and Berenice appeared.  Her hair hung on her shoulders.  She was in a white dressing-gown.  Her face was red and her eyes swollen.  She did not attempt to move.  Affectionately Hubert caught her in his arms and asked about her headache.

“It is better,” she answered in scarcely audible accents.

“Why, you poor child!  I hope you are not going to be ill!  Have you been racing in the sun without your hat?”

“No.  I haven’t been out of doors since yesterday.”

“What’s the matter, little Berenice?  Has some one been cross with her?” She pushed him from her violently.

“Hubert Falcroft, when you treat me as a woman and not as a child—­”

“But I am treating you as a woman,” he said.  Her dark face became tragic.  She had emerged from girlhood in a few hours.  And as he held her closer some perverse spirit entered into his soul.  Her vibrating youth and beauty forced him to gaze into her blazing eyes until he saw the pupils contract.

“Let me go!” she panted.  “Let me free!  I am not a doll.  Go to your portrait and worship it.  Let me free!”

“And what if I do not?” Something of her rebellious feeling filled his veins.  He felt younger, stronger, fiercer.  He put his arms about her neck and, after a silent battle, kissed her.  Then she pushed by him and disappeared.  He could see nothing, after the shock of the adventure, for some moments, and the semi-obscurity of the atelier was grateful to his eyes.  A picture stood on the easel, but it was not, he fancied, the portrait.  He went to the centre of the room where hung the cords that controlled the curtains covering the glass roof.  Then in the flood of light he barely recognized the head of Elaine.  It was on the easel, and with a sharp pain at his heart he saw across the face a big crimson splash.