nitely to 'cheering him up.' But
for the present she discouraged troublesome thoughts; and now, while
Richardson sat smoking and watching her, she was conscious of nothing
on earth save the exhilaration of success.

She let fall both hands at last, with a sigh of supreme satisfaction.

"There! I can do no more to it--for the present. You are released.
You may come and look."

He obeyed; and stood beside her lost in uncomprehending admiration of
her skill.

It was Quita who spoke first. "We have achieved a rather remarkable
bit of work between us, you and I."

"We?" he echoed in amaze. "I don't quite see where I come in."

"No: you wouldn't: and I'm afraid I can't enlighten you. But the fact
remains. Would you mind if I sent it to the Academy, just as a
Portrait of a Soldier?"

"The Academy? Good Lord! I should be proud."

"Thank you. I believe they'll hang it; and hang it well. That will be
_my_ reward. But what about yours?"

She looked up at him now, letting her eyes rest confidently in his: and
the glad light in them held him, dazzled him, so that he forgot to
answer her; forgot much that he ought to have remembered, in the
flashlight of a revelation so simple yet so astounding that it took him
several seconds to understand what had befallen him.

"Well?" she asked, smiling. "Is it so tremendous?" And the spell was
broken. But reality remained.

He felt something in him throb strangely; the pain of it melting into a
glow more startling than the first shock; and with an awkward laugh he
turned abruptly away from her;--too abruptly, as a twinge in his left
leg gave warning, so that the laugh ended in an involuntary sound of
pain.

"Mr Richardson, do be careful," she reproved him gently. "What has
come to you? And why do you go off like that without answering my
question?"

For he had crossed to the mantelpiece; and a photo of her portrait of
Lenox seemed to be absorbing his attention. Nor did he take his eyes
from it in speaking.

"Because--well, because it struck me that perhaps you wouldn't be so
keen about rewarding me,--if you knew . . . ."

"What? _Is_ there anything to know?"

"Yes: worse luck. I ought to have spoken sooner. But I shirked it,
especially after what you said out driving. You remember--that
letter--long ago?"

"Am I likely to forget? What about it?"

This time he faced her deliberately, though the blood mounted to his
forehead.

"I am the chap who wr