“Florian!”

The exclamation broke from her lips like a cry of physical pain.

“That was a mistake of yours!” he went on recklessly, his eyes beginning to glitter with the fever raging in his mind, “You should not have shut the doors against your lover, my beloved!  Nor would you admit your father either!  That looks very strange!”

White as a snowflake, yet with blazing eyes, Angela turned upon him.

“Florian!” she said, “Do you—­you of all people in the world—­you to whom I have given all my love and confidence—­mean to suggest that my work is not my own?”

He looked at her, smiling easily.

“Sweet Angela, not I!  I know your genius—­I worship it!  See!” and with a light grace he dropped on one knee, and snatching her hand, kissed it—­then springing up again, he said, “You are a great creature, my Angela!—­the greatest artist in the world,—­if we can only make the world believe it!”

Something in his voice, his manner, moved her to a vague touch of dread.  Earnestly she looked at him,—­wonderingly, and with a passionate reproach in her pure, true eyes.  And still he smiled, while the fiends of envy and malice made havoc in his soul.

“My glorious Angela!” he said, “My bride, my beautiful one!  A veritable queen, to whom nations shall pay homage!” He threw one arm round her waist and drew her somewhat roughly to him.  “You must not be vexed with me, sweetheart!—­the world is a cruel world, and always doubts great ability in woman!  I only prepare you for what most people will say.  But I do not doubt!—­I know your power, and triumph in it!” He paused a moment, breathing quickly,—­his eyes were fixed on the picture,—­then he said, “If I may venture to criticise—­there is a shadow—­there, at the left hand side of the canvas—­do you not see?”

She disengaged herself from his clasp.

“Where?” she asked, in a voice from which all spirit and hopefulness had fled.

“You are sad?  My Angela, have I discouraged you?  Forgive me!  I do not find fault,—­this is a mere nothing,—­you may not agree with me,—­but does not that dark cloud make somewhat too deep a line near the faded roses?  It may be only an effect of this waning light,—­but I do think that line is heavy and might be improved.  Be patient with me!—­I only criticise to make perfection still more perfect!”

Listlessly she moved closer to the picture, turning away from him as she did so.

“Just the slightest softening of the tone—­the finishing touch!” he murmured in caressing accents; while to himself he muttered—­“It shall not be!  It shall never be!” Then with a swift movement his hand snatched at the thing he always carried concealed near his breast—­a flash of pointed steel glittered in the light,—­and with one stealthy spring and pitiless blow, he stabbed her full and furiously in the back as she stood looking at the fault he had pretended to discover in her picture!  One choking cry escaped her lips—­