both arms upraised to
fasten a pomegranate blossom in the tightly twisted hair: an indefinite
heap of sketchy clothing lay upon the ground.

"The title?" murmured Lucia; and I pressed my way a little forward to
see the number, looked it up in the catalogue, and read to her "The
Toilette." "Before the toilette! I should think," said Lucia, in a
satirical whisper. I nodded and laughed.

We could not move on till the circle before us moved, and we stood
silent looking at the shadowy representation of human flesh and blood
smiling with fixed inanity from the canvas.

"The most successful picture of the year!" remarked one man just in
front of us.

"Eminently artistic!" murmured another, stifling a yawn.

"Did you ever see such a thing?" said Lucia. "No living woman ever
looked like that!"

"No," I answered, unguardedly.

Lucia threw a sudden, brilliant, mocking glance over my face.

"Come, Victor! you ought to have said you didn't know!"

I coloured, and then laughed.

"Ah, yes; so I ought. Well, really, I answered you in absence of mind."

"Oh, don't apologise! Let's sit down."

I glanced at her face. It was white to the lips which laughed so
readily. I looked round desperately. The lounge behind was filled
completely before the most successful picture of the year.

"Let us try another room," I said, hastily drawing her arm more through
mine. It leant heavily there, and she grew more pallid.

"They are all alike--I can't stand the heat--we must go, I think," she
murmured.

"It doesn't seem very easy," I said.

Lucia threw a helpless glance round on the crown pressing up eagerly to
catch a glimpse of the popular painting, and some one in artistic
circles recognised her.

A whisper went from one to the other of the little sets within the
crowd, and they fell back from us; heads were turned from the canvas
towards Lucia. There was an exit made, and I walked determinedly
through the staring loungers, who yielded before us.

A voice said behind us,--

"They say she'll be the greatest artist of the times!"

"How I envy her!" came a girl's answer.

Lucia's blue-white lips smiled mockingly.

"Take me home, Victor," she said, faintly.

* * * * *

The hot summer days dragged slowly by.

The Grants did not leave town, and I hesitated to do as my father
suggested, and go myself. I waited, and saw Lucia daily, and hoped
daily to hear the words I thirsted for, but she persistent