wo
stood thus at bay.

Left to themselves in the big studio, facing each other, Karl and Olga
were silent. There was a look in Karl's eyes that Olga had never seen
before; there was a tumult in her heart that she had never before felt.
It was Karl who first recovered himself and broke the silence, trying to
speak lightly:

"Don't be nervous," he said, reassuringly. "This is the reception-room
of my studio. Every woman I paint comes here."

"And do you paint every woman who comes here?" Olga asked slowly.

"No," Karl replied shortly.

There was another awkward pause. Olga could not tell why she had asked
that question any more than Karl could have told why he had asked Herman
if he was not afraid to leave them alone. It was some unsuspected
jealousy that prompted it.

"Did you understand my husband?" Olga asked.

"Yes, I think I did."

"He said, 'I trust you.' Why should he say that? Why should it not be a
matter of course?"

"You don't think he is really jealous?"

Olga shook her head.

"I don't know," she said. "During the six years we have been together
and you have been our friend, he has often pretended to be jealous.
This time there was something in his voice that made me believe it was
more than pretense. It is the first time he has ever left us alone."

They were standing, Karl near the door, where he had bidden Herman
farewell, and Olga across the apartment. In an alcove in one corner an
open fire burned brightly, casting a red glow over the big, comfortable
arm-chair drawn up before it, with its high, pulpit-shaped back toward
them. Karl walked over to Olga and said with quiet earnestness:

"We have tried to avoid it, Olga; tried for six years. Now that the
situation is forced upon us, why not be honest? Let us talk about it
frankly."

"I think it was sweet not to discuss it for six long years," Olga said,
smiling at him. "A clean conscience is like a warm cloak, Karl; it
enfolds us and makes us feel so comfortable."

She tried to make her mood seem light, but Karl would not fall in with
it.

"Last night, when it was suggested that I should paint your portrait,
you gave me a look I had never seen before," he persisted. "I wonder
why?"

"I don't know," Olga answered, her fear returning. "Don't let us talk
about it; I don't want to."

"You must not be afraid of me, Olga; if I were not I you might be
frightened. I am fond of you, yes; but respectfully. I do not see what
harm can be done b