e than that, I believe she loves me. No word of it has passed
between us, but--we understand."

"Oh, we do, eh? We--we understand," imitated Lawton. "Well, this is
exceedingly interesting, I must say, although quite the thing to be
expected from one of your temperament. How very fortunate you are in the
choice of subjects, too."

"What do you mean, Harry?"

"Well, I should judge you might divide up your affections on those two
without any serious confliction of sentiments."

"You are mistaken, though; I do not care for Evelin March at all, now. I
am sorry I ever met her. I shall stop this foolish flirtation with her,
at once."

"Quite likely. And when does Evelin come again?"

"To-morrow, perhaps."

"So; well, I'll just drop in to-morrow evening for the latest. Evelin
seems to be a trifle outclassed just at present."

"Harry, you are unkind. I tell you I love that innocent girl on the
easel there and mean to marry her."

"Oh, of course; I haven't the least doubt of it. And now, what about the
resemblance?"

"Why, look! do you see their hair? The shade of each is exactly the
same--the same silkiness and glow through it; it is very peculiar. And
notice the ear; the outline and formation of each is identical. You may
not have noticed these things as I have, but it is very rare that the
ear is anatomically the same in two people. There is a similarity, too,
about the oval of the face, although less marked and not unusual; and
there is a faint suggestion of something else, which I feel but cannot
locate. I noticed these things, and they struck me at once as being a
tie of kinship. I hinted, in a miserably awkward manner, as to relatives
who might be having their portraits painted. It was then she told me
that she had no relatives, and I believe started to tell me she had no
friends, but she hesitated and was near bursting into tears. From that
moment I loved her; I shall love her always."

"Charming, Julian. And yet I fancy she is not wholly alone in the world.
A beautiful and affluent maiden is not calculated to be friendless; and
you will admit that one who is able to gratify a passing impulse for one
of Julian Paul Goetze's justly celebrated portraits is not likely to be
destitute. Still, I will allow that there are cases, even among the
wealthy, that are not entirely undeserving of sympathy; and, if I may
judge from this incipient work of your magic brush, I think I should be
willing to lavish any amount of