For in Duane’s work, from somewhere deep within, there radiated outward something of that internal glow which never entirely fades from the canvases of the old masters—­which survives mould and age, the opacity of varnish, and the well-intentioned maltreatment of unbaked curators.

There was no mystery about it; he prepared his canvas with white-lead, gave it a long sun-bath, modelled in bone-black and an earth-red, gave it another bath in the sun, and then glazed.  This, a choice of permanent colours, and oil as a medium, was the mechanical technique.

Standing there, thoughts remote, idly sorting and re-sorting his brushes, he heard the birds singing on the forest’s edge, heard the wind in the pines blowing, with the sound of flowing water, felt the warmth of the sun, breathed the mounting freshness from the fields.  Life was still very, very young; it had only begun since love had come, and that was yesterday.

And as he stood there, happy, a trifle awed as he began to understand what life might hold for him, there came quick steps on the stair, a knock, her voice outside his door: 

“Duane!  May I come in?”

He sprang to the door; she stepped inside, breathing rapidly, delicately flushed from her haste.

“I couldn’t stand it any longer, so I left Scott to scrape and bow and pull his forelock.  I’ve got to go back in a few minutes.  Are you glad to see me?”

He took her in his arms.

“Dearest, dearest!” she murmured, looking at him with all her heart in her brown eyes.

So they stood for a little while, her mouth and body acquiescent to his embrace.

“Such a long, long time since I saw you.  Nearly half an hour,” he said.

“Yes.”  She drew away a little: 

“Do you know,” she said, looking about her, over his shoulder, “I have never been here since you took it as a studio.”

She caught a glimpse of the picture on the easel, freed herself, and, retaining his hand in both of hers, gazed curiously at Rosalie’s portrait.

“How perfectly charming!” she said.  “But, Duane, there’s a sort of exquisite impudence about what you’ve done!  Did you mean to gently and disrespectfully jeer at our mincing friends, Boucher, Nattier, et al.?”

“I knew you’d understand!” he exclaimed, delighted.  “Oh, you wonderful little thing—­you darling!” He caught her to him again, but she twisted away and tucked one arm under his: 

“Don’t, Duane; I want to see these things.  What a perfectly dear study of Miller’s kiddies!  Oh, it is too lovable, too adorable!  You wouldn’t sell that—­would you?”

“Of course not; it’s yours, Geraldine.”

After a moment she looked up at him: 

“Ours?” she asked; but the smile faded once more from eyes and lips; she suffered him to lead her from canvas to canvas, approved them or remained silent, and presently turned and glanced toward the small iron bed.  Manner and gaze had become distrait.