"It is so difficult to get subjects," he remarked abruptly. "I cannot
afford to pay models, and they are not fond of me painting out of doors.
If I had always a subject like you! You--you have a grief, have you
not?"

At that startling little question, Noel looked up, frowning.

"Everybody has, now."

The painter grasped his chin; his eyes had suddenly become tragical.

"Yes," he said, "everybody. Tragedy is daily bread. I have lost my
family; they are in Belgium. How they live I do not know."

"I'm sorry; very sorry, too, if we aren't nice to you, here. We ought to
be."

He shrugged his shoulders. "What would you have? We are different. That
is unpardonable. An artist is always lonely, too; he has a skin fewer
than other people, and he sees things that they do not. People do not
like you to be different. If ever in your life you act differently from
others, you will find it so, mademoiselle."

Noel felt herself flushing. Was he reading her secret? His eyes had such
a peculiar, secondsighted look.

"Have you nearly finished?" she asked.

"No, mademoiselle; I could go on for hours; but I do not wish to keep
you. It is cold for you, sitting there."

Noel got up. "May I look?"

"Certainly."

She did not quite recognise herself--who does?--but she saw a face which
affected her oddly, of a girl looking at something which was, and yet
was not, in front of her.

"My name is Lavendie," the painter said; "my wife and I live here," and
he gave her a card.

Noel could not help answering: "My name is Noel Pierson; I live with my
father; here's the address"--she found her case, and fished out a card.
"My father is a clergyman; would you care to come and see him? He loves
music and painting."

"It would be a great pleasure; and perhaps I might be allowed to paint
you. Alas! I have no studio."

Noel drew back. "I'm afraid that I work in a hospital all day, and--and
I don't want to be painted, thank you. But, Daddy would like to meet
you, I'm sure."

The painter bowed again; she saw that he was hurt.

"Of course I can see that you're a very fine painter," she said quickly;
"only--only--I don't want to, you see. Perhaps you'd like to paint
Daddy; he's got a most interesting face."

The painter smiled. "He is your father, mademoiselle. May I ask you one
question? Why do you not want to be painted?"

"Because--because I don't, I'm afraid." She held out her hand. The
painter bowed over it. "Au revoir, mademoise