, Arnold, you would like her too. But I know"--for Arnold
changed color--"I know one must not interfere in these matters. But
surely one may go so far with a young man one loves as to say, 'Here
is a girl of a million.' There is not, Arnold, I declare, her equal
anywhere; a clearer head I never met, or a better educated girl, or
one who knows what a man can do, and how he can be helped to do it."

"Thank you, Clara," Arnold said coldly; "I dare say I shall discover
the young lady's perfections in time."

"Not, I think, without some help. She is not an ordinary girl. You
must draw her out, my dear boy."

"I will," he said listlessly. "I will try to draw her out, if you
like."

"We talked a great deal of you, Arnold," Clara went on. "I confided to
her some of my hopes and ambitions for you; and I am free to confess
to you that she has greatly modified all my plans and calculations."

"Oh!" Arnold was interested in this "But, my dear Clara, I have my
profession. I must follow my profession."

"Surely--surely! Listen, Arnold, patiently. Anybody can become an
artist--anybody, of course, who has the genius. And all kinds of
people, gutter people, have the genius."

"The sun," said Arnold, just as if he had been Lala Roy, "shines on
all alike."

"Quite so; and there is an immense enthusiasm for art everywhere; but
there is no art leader. There is no one man recognized as the man most
competent to speak on art of every kind. Think of that. It is Stella's
idea entirely. This man, when he is found, will sway enormous
authority; he will become, if he has a wife able to assist him, an
immense social power."

"And you want me to become that man?"

"Yes, Arnold. I do not see why you should not become that man. Cease
to think of becoming President of the Royal Academy, yet go on
painting; prove your genius, so as to command respect; cultivate the
art of public speaking; and look about for a wife who will be your
right hand. Think of this seriously. This is only a rough sketch, we
can fill in the details afterward. But think of it. Oh, my dear boy!
if I were only a man, and five-and-twenty, with such a chance before
me! What a glorious career is yours, if you choose! But of course you
will choose. Good gracious, Arnold! who is that?"

She pointed to the canvas on the easel, where Iris's face was like the
tale of Cambuscan, half told.

"It is no one you know, Clara."

"One of your models?" She rose and examined it more