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