oors of the studio and bowed us out with his usual
ceremonious politeness.

"Au revoir, madame! A demain, mademoiselle!" and the violet velvet
curtains of the portiere fell softly behind us as we made our exit.

"Is there not something strange about that young man?" said Mrs.
Everard, as we walked through the long gallery of the Hotel de L----
back to our own rooms. "Something fiendish or angelic, or a little of
both qualities mixed up?"

"I think he is what people term PECULIAR, when they fail to understand
the poetical vagaries of genius," I replied. "He is certainly very
uncommon."

"Well!" continued my friend meditatively, as she contemplated her
pretty mignonne face and graceful figure in a long mirror placed
attractively in a corner of the hall through which we were passing;
"all I can say is that I wouldn't let him paint MY portrait if he were
to ask ever so! I should be scared to death. I wonder you, being so
nervous, were not afraid of him."

"I thought you liked him," I said.

"So I do. So does my husband. He's awfully handsome and clever, and all
that--but his conversation! There now, my dear, you must own he is
slightly QUEER. Why, who but a lunatic would say that the only
criticism of art is silence? Isn't that utter rubbish?"

"The only TRUE criticism," I corrected her gently.

"Well, it's all the same. How can there be any criticism at all in
silence? According to his idea when we admire anything very much we
ought to go round with long faces and gags on our mouths. That would be
entirely ridiculous! And what was that dreadful thing he said to you?"

"I don't quite understand you," I answered; "I cannot remember his
saying anything dreadful."

"Oh, I have it now," continued Amy with rapidity; "it was awful! He
said you had the FACE OF ONE WHOM THE SOUL CONSUMES. You know that was
most horribly mystical! And when he said it he looked--ghastly! What
did he mean by it, I wonder?"

I made no answer; but I thought I knew. I changed the conversation as
soon as possible, and my volatile American friend was soon absorbed in
a discussion on dress and jewellery. That night was a blessed one for
me; I was free from all suffering, and slept as calmly as a child,
while in my dreams the face of Cellini's "Angel of life" smiled at me,
and seemed to suggest peace.

CHAPTER II.

THE MYSTERIOUS POTION.

The next day, punctually at noon, according to my promise, I entered
the studio. I was alone,