deavoring to restore her to
consciousness. In the background were some flying figures, who were
hastening up to separate the combatants. The sketch was one of real
life, denuded of any sham element of romance, and this was the one that
M. de Breulh had chosen. The two men discussed the size of the picture,
and not a single detail was omitted.

"I am sure that you will do all that is right," remarked De Breulh. "Let
your own inspiration guide you, and all will be well." In reality he was
dying to get away, for he felt in what a false position he was, and with
a violent effort he approached the money part of the matter.

"Monsieur," said Andre, "it is impossible to fix a price; when
completed, a picture may only be worth the canvas that it is painted on,
or else beyond all price. Let us wait."

"Well," broke in M. de Breulh, "what do you say to ten thousand francs?"

"Too much," returned Andre with a deprecatory wave of his hand; "far
too much. If I succeed in it, as I hope to do, I will ask six thousand
francs for it."

"Agreed!" answered De Breulh, taking from his pocket an elegant
note-case with his crest and monogram upon it and extracting from it
three thousand francs. "I will, as is usual, deposit half the price in
advance."

Andre blushed scarlet. "You are joking," said he.

"Not at all," answered De Breulh quietly; "I have my own way of doing
business, from which I never deviate."

In spite of this answer Andre's pride was hurt.

"But," remarked he, "this picture will not be ready for perhaps six or
seven months. I have entered into a contract with a wealthy builder,
named Candele, to execute the outside decorations of his house."

"Never mind that," answered M. de Breulh; "take as long as you like."

Of course, after this, Andre could offer no further opposition; he
therefore took the money without another word.

"And now," said De Breulh, as he paused for a moment at the open
doorway, "let me wish you my good luck, and if you will come and
breakfast with me one day, I think I can show you some pictures which
you will really appreciate." And handing his card to the artist, he went
downstairs.

At first Andre did not glance at the card, but when he did so, the
letters seemed to sear his eyeballs like a red-hot iron. For a moment
he could hardly breathe, and then a feeling of intense anger took
possession of him, for he felt that he had been trifled with and
deceived.

Hardly knowing what he was d