hands are well enough, but they're not the whole of art nor the whole
preparation for it."

"Oh, I've joined the sketch class," she said.

"Yes, that's well enough, too," he assented. "But I want you to come
and paint with me," he suddenly added.

"You? Me?" she gasped.

"Yes," he returned. "I'll tell you what I mean. I've been asked to
paint a lady. She'll have to come to my place, and I want you to come
with her, and see what you can do, too. I hope it doesn't seem too
extraordinary?" he broke off, at sight of the color in her face.

"Oh, no," said Cornelia. She wondered what Charmian would say if she
knew this; she wondered what the Synthesis would say; the Synthesis
held Mr. Ludlow in only less honor than the regular Synthesis
instructors, and Mr. Ludlow had asked her to come and paint with him!
She took shelter in the belief that Mrs. Burton must have put him up to
it, somehow, but she ought to say something grateful, or at least
something. She found herself stupidly and aimlessly asking, "Is it Mrs.
Westley?" as if that had anything to do with the matter.

"No; I don't see why I didn't tell you at once," said Ludlow. "It's
your friend, Miss Maybough."

Cornelia relieved her nerves with a laugh. "I wonder how she ever kept
from telling it."

"Perhaps she didn't know. I've only just got a letter from her mother,
asking me to paint her, and I haven't decided yet that I shall do it."

She thought that he wanted her to ask him why, and she asked, "What are
you waiting for?"

"For two reasons. Do you want the real reason first?" he asked, smiling
at her.

She laughed. "No, the unreal one!"

"Well, I doubt whether Mrs. Maybough wrote to me of her own
inspiration, entirely. I suspect that Wetmore and Plaisdell have been
working the affair, and I don't like that."

"Well?"

"And I'm waiting for you to say whether I could do it. That's the real
reason."

"How should I know?"

"I could make a picture of her," he said, "but could I make a portrait?
There is something in every one which holds the true likeness; if you
don't get at that, you don't make a portrait, and you don't give people
their money's worth. They haven't proposed to buy merely a picture of
you; they've proposed to buy a picture of a certain person; you may
give them more, but you can't honestly give them less; and if you don't
think you can give them that, then you had better not try. I should
like to try for Miss Maybough's likeness, an