You look at each other, unhappy. Nothing has happened, but
the mischief is done. What mischief? Appearances. Whatever you say makes
matters worse, and a compromising situation like this is never forgotten
by the husband. You go home together in silence."

"Ah, if it were like that," Karl broke in; "but we are not alone. You
are here."

Millar shrugged his shoulders.

"Ah, that is it; I am here, and with one word I could dispel the
illusion," he acquiesced. "But I know myself; I am cursed with a
peculiar, sinister sense of humor, and I am afraid I would not say the
word. Hence, when the husband enters we are all silent. Then I say, 'I
regret to have arrived at such an inopportune moment.' I take my hat and
walk out, leaving you, madam, your husband and Karl."

He seemed to find keen pleasure in the possibility of forcing the two
into a position which would cause them suffering and weaken the
barriers of self-control they had built up around that boy and girl love
that had come back so vividly to both. Had they regarded him as merely
human it is certain that Karl would have kicked this cynical being out
of the studio, with his infernal innuendoes. But there was something
supernormal about him. He dominated both the artist and the wife, and
they were completely under his spell, struggle as they would to break
it. Olga shrank from the cruelty of their tormentor.

"If this is a jest it is a cruel one," she cried.

"True, madam. But there is another way. If you wish it I can be quite
truthful. Should your husband arrive I can tell him the portrait has not
been touched and ask his pardon."

"Pardon for what?"

"For having seen your shoulders."

"This is a trap," Olga cried, turning toward Karl for protection. "What
do you want? You overwhelm me with false insinuations. I hardly know you
five minutes, and I imagine I feel your long fingers at my throat."

"Other pretty women do not feel them quite so soon," he murmured,
bending toward her.

Enraged at the attitude of the man, Karl stepped toward him.

"Stop! I won't allow any more of this," he commanded.

The entrance of Heinrich checked his speech. The old servant said:

"The tailor has sent some evening clothes, Monsieur Karl, but they are
not yours."

"They are mine," interrupted the stranger.

"Yours?" Karl said in amazement.

"Yes; they were crushed in my trunk," the other said coolly. "I told the
tailor to press them and send them here for the evening