too, love every woman who sits to me for a portrait. He'll get over
it," said the master. "It all began when I allowed him to paint her
picture."

Busy men of forty, with ambitions, are not troubled by Anthony Hope's
interrogation. They glibly answer, "No, no, love is not all--it's only a
small part of life--simply incidental!"

But Van Dyck continued to sigh, and all of his spare time was taken up in
painting pictures of the matronly Isabella. He managed to work even in
spite of loss of appetite; and sitters sometimes called at the studio and
asked for "Master Van Dyck," whereas before there was only one master in
the whole domain.

Rubens grew aweary.

He was too generous to think of crushing Van Dyck, and too wise to
attempt it. To cast him out and recognize him openly as a rival would be
to acknowledge his power. A man with less sense would have kicked the
lovesick swain into the street. Rubens was a true diplomat. He decided to
get rid of Van Dyck and do it in a way that would cause no scandal, and
at the same time be for the good of the young man.

He took Van Dyck into his private office and counseled with him calmly,
explaining to him how hopeless must be his love for Isabella. He further
succeeded in convincing the youth that a few years in Italy would add the
capsheaf to his talent. Without Italy he could not hope to win all; with
Italy all doors would open at his touch.

Then he led him to his stable and presented him with his best
saddle-horse, and urged immediate departure for a wider field and
pastures new.

A few days later the handsome Van Dyck--with a goodly purse of gold,
passports complete, and saddlebags well filled with various letters of
introduction to Rubens' Italian friends--followed by a cart filled with
his belongings, started gaily away, bound for the land where art had its
birth.

"With Italy--with Italy I can win all!" he kept repeating to himself as
he turned his horse's head to the South.

* * * * *

The first day's ride took the artistic traveler to the little village of
Saventhem, five miles from Brussels. Here he turned aside long enough to
say good-by to a fair young lady, Anna Van Ophem by name, whom he had met
a few months before at Antwerp.

He rode across the broad pasture, entered the long lane lined with
poplars, and followed on to the spacious old stone mansion in the grove
of trees.

Anna herself saw him coming and came out to me