which Foster understood pretty well by that
time.

It now became evident to him why the drawing of the room had been left
unfinished, and he thought it probable that modesty--or, perhaps, a
difficulty in overcoming the Moslem's dislike to being transferred to
canvas at all--had caused the delay.

"In what attitude do you wish to be painted?" asked the middy, as he
moved the easel a little, and took a professional, head-on-one-side look
at his subject.

"In no attitude," returned the Moor gravely.

"Pardon me," said Foster in surprise. "Did you not say that--that--"

"I said that I wish you to finish the drawing by introducing a figure,"
returned Ben-Ahmed, taking a long draw at the hookah.

"Just so--and may I ask--"

"The figure," resumed the Moor, taking no notice of the interruption,
"is to be one of my women slaves."

Here he turned his head slightly and gave a brief order to the negress
in waiting, who retired by the door behind her.

The middy stood silent for a minute or so, lost in wonder and
expectation, when another door opened and a female entered. She was
gorgeously dressed, and closely veiled, so that her face was entirely
concealed; nevertheless, George Foster's heart seemed to bound into his
throat and half choke him, for he knew the size, air, and general effect
of that female as well as if she had been his own mother.

The Moor rose, led her to a cushion, and bade her sit down. She did so
with the grace of Venus, and then the Moor removed her veil--looking
fixedly at the painter as he did so.

But the middy had recovered self-possession by that time. He was
surprised as well as deeply concerned to observe that Hester's beautiful
face was very pale, and her eyes were red and swollen, as if from much
crying, but not a muscle in his stolid countenance betrayed the
slightest emotion. He put his head a little to one side, in the
orthodox manner, and looked steadily at her. Then he looked at his
painting and frowned, as if considering the best spot in which to place
this "figure." Then he began to work.

Meanwhile the Moor sat down to smoke in such a position that he could
see both painter and sitter.

It was a severe test of our middy's capacity to act the "hyperkrite!"
His heart was thumping at his ribs like a sledge-hammer anxious to get
out. His hand trembled so that he could scarcely draw a line, and he
was driven nearly mad with the necessity of presenting a calm,
thoughtful ex