is forehead with his long, white fingers, and his black eyes
were fixed upon her. Clutching the silken garment she had worn, Olga
rushed into the studio. Millar, man or devil, looked after her and
chuckled.

CHAPTER IV

Karl threw himself moodily into a chair as Olga fled into the outer
studio, and sat there, not looking at his unwelcome visitor. Dr. Millar
seemed to find his dejection amusing. He allowed the silence to remain
undisturbed, while he puffed a cigarette. Then he said, half to himself,
half to Karl:

"Full of temperament, that woman, and pretty, too; extremely pretty."

"Yes, she is pretty," Karl acquiesced, without looking at him.

"It's a pity she doesn't love her husband," was the next cynical remark
that fell on Karl's ears.

He wheeled in his seat and looked at the visitor, who went on with
perfect coolness:

"How do I know? It was apparent when she fancied I had insulted her and
turned to you for protection."

Karl angrily slammed down an ash tray he had picked up in his nervous
fingers and began to pace the floor. Millar went on in a light tone:

"She does not love her husband. He must be a genius or a very
commonplace man. Marriage always is a failure with such men. Common men
live so low that women are afraid some one may steal into their lives at
night through a cellar window. Genius--well, genius lives on the top
floor, up toward the clouds, and with so many gloomy steps to climb and
no elevator, it's very uncomfortable for a pretty woman. Her ideal is
one easy flight of stairs to comfortable living rooms on the first
floor."

Karl maintained silence, and continued to walk the floor. He looked at
his watch and started toward the door of the reception-room leading into
the hall, which was locked.

"This is the second time I have seen madam's shoulders," Millar
remarked, casually, blowing cigarette rings in the air.

"What do you mean?" Karl demanded, stung to speech by jealousy.

"Ah, I saw them first in Paris, at the Louvre, fashioned of snow-white
marble. They were the shoulders of Venus. Am I right, Karl?"

"I don't know," the artist snapped.

"Well, you must take my word for it, then," Millar said lightly. "I have
seen both. And since Alcamenes I have known but one sculptor who could
form such wonderful shoulders."

"Who?" Karl asked, turning to him.

"Prosperity," Millar replied, sententiously. "Such tender, soft,
exquisite curves are possible only to women who l