erbe_! _Superbe!_ What an exquisite idea,
to dress her in the Grecian costume! What a truly delicious surprise!"

The artist hardly knew how to undeceive the ladies in their agreeable
mistake. He hung his head, and, with an apologetic air, said, in a low
voice, "This is Psyche."

"Painted as Psyche! _C'est charmant!_" said the mother, with a smile,
faithfully repeated by the daughter. "Don't you think so, Lise? it's
just the thing for you. Painted as Pysche! _Quelle idee delicieuse!_ But
what a picture! Quite a Correggio! I have heard and read much about you,
but I had not the least idea of your talent."

"What the deuce am I to do with them?" thought the artist. "Well, if
they will have it so, Psyche shall go;" and he said aloud--"I must
trouble you to give me a few minutes more--I should like to add a few
touches."

"You cannot improve it. Pray leave it as it is."

The painter guessed that they apprehended some more yellow tones, and he
hastened to remove their fears, saying that he was only going to
increase the brilliancy and expression of the eyes. In reality he
desired to give his picture a closer resemblance with the
original--fearing, if he did not, that he should be taxed with
unblushing flattery. In spite of the lady's reluctance, the pallid
damsel's features began to come out more clearly amid the outlines of
the Psyche.

"That will do," said the mother, less pleased by the picture as the
resemblance grew closer. The artist was rewarded for his labour with
smiles, money, compliments, a most affectionate squeeze of the hand, and
a pressing invitation to dinner; in a word, he was overwhelmed with
recompenses. The portrait made much noise in the town. The lady showed
it to all her acquaintance. Every body admired the skill with which the
painter had succeeded in preserving the resemblance, and at the same
time in giving beauty to the original. The last remark, of course, was
not made without a slight tinge of malice. Tchartkoff was besieged with
commissions. The whole town was mad to be painted by him. His door-bell
rang incessantly. Unfortunately his sitters were of the class most
difficult to manage; either persons very much occupied, or fashionable
people, who having in reality nothing to do, were, of course, far busier
than anybody else, and hurried and impatient in the highest degree.
Every body expected a good picture in less time than was necessary to do
a slovenly one. The artist saw that high fin