the delicate color deepened in her cheeks, her lips murmured a half inaudible word of adieu, and she was gone.
Julian left alone had flung himself into a large chair that stood near the window, and looked out upon the little garden beyond. It was June. The days were long and the sun was still touching the tops of the locust trees. He was away from the bustle of the city, and an atmosphere of peace almost like that of the country was about him. All at once he covered his face with his hands, pressing his fingers hard into his eyes.
"I love her, I love her," he groaned; "she is an angel from heaven, and I – oh, my God! if she knew she would hate me."
He rose and stood before the face on the easel; then, as if suddenly recollecting, he approached the canvas that was turned face to the wall, and which once before that day had claimed his attention, and, facing it nervously about, placed it beneath the other.
It was the portrait of a woman. Like the one above her, she was fair and beautiful; but here all resemblance apparently ceased. Nothing could be more widely different than the characters that had stamped themselves upon the faces of these two.
The picture on the floor was that of a woman whose age might be anywhere from twenty-five to thirty-five; a woman of the great world of fashion, of folly, of intrigue, perhaps of vice. Her dress was a rich ball costume, exposing the white flesh of her beautiful arms, her perfect shoulders, and her pearly tinted throat and bosom. Like the other, her face was oval in shape, but seemed less perfect in its contour. There was a certain lack of delicacy and softness about the outline that suggested the fierce chase after the sham pleasures of the great social world.
The rest of the features were in harmony with this idea. The beautiful mouth was hard and cruel. The lips and cheeks were bright as if artificially tinted, or flushed with wine. The eyes were bold and the pupils seemed expanded as with belladonna. The nostrils of the finely shaped nose were full and sensual. Her luxuriant brown hair, singularly like that of the portrait above her in color, she wore in the late French mode, combed back from her high, broad forehead and twisted into a massive device at the top. Her eyebrows were unnaturally dark. An artificial air pervaded the entire picture – one felt that she had an artificial soul. A perfect prototype of Folly's feverish and heartless world.
As the artist stood gazing from one to the other, the curious vexed and puzzled expression that had come into his face once before that day returned. He approached closely to the work as if to examine it more minutely. As he bent low over the face on the easel he heard the street door open. He started guiltily, and hastily turned both pictures to the wall. A moment later a tall, fair-haired man of about his own age entered without knocking. It was Harry Lawton, the artist's most intimate friend.
"Julian, old boy, how goes it?" he said, cheerily.
"Pretty well, Harry; come in."
"Yes, I should do that any way. I don't seem to be any too welcome, however."
"Nonsense, Harry, of course you are welcome; I am very glad, in fact, to see you, just now.
"Well, that's better; although I must say your face doesn't indicate excessive joy."
"Sit down; not there – here by the door; I want to show you something."
"Oh, some new and wonderful work of your transcendent genius, I suppose. By the way, how is the picture for the Salon getting along?"
"Tediously, Harry; I seem to have lost the spirit of the thing."
"Found too much spirit of another kind, perhaps."
"No, not that. I have been a model of abstinence of late."
"And the heavens do not fall?
"No – yes – that is – let your tongue rest for a moment, please, and use your eyes."
While the artist had been speaking he had taken the large screen from before the window and moved his easel into a stronger light. Upon it he now placed the two portraits in their former position. The effect upon the other was vigorous and immediate.
"Heavens! Julian, where did you get that angel and that dev – I beg pardon, that extraordinary pair of beauties? Oh, I see! – why, of course! a new idea for the Salon. A modern Guinevere and Elaine; Siren and Saint; Sense and Innocence. I congratulate you, old boy; they are wonderful" —
"Please be quiet for a moment, Harry; they are not for the Salon. They are two sitters of mine. The one beneath has been here twice – the first time about a week ago; the second time day before yesterday. The other came for the first time to-day."
"And they are real, live women, then?"
"Yes. I was in hopes you might recognize one or both of them."
The other shook his head, and gazed from one to the other in silence.
"Do you see any – any resemblance between them?" asked the artist, after a pause.
"Resemblance! Good Lord, no! Why? Are they related in any way?"
"Not that I am aware of; in fact, I am quite sure they are not. She told me she had no relatives."
"Um – and which do you refer to as she?"
"Oh, the upper one, of course."
"Well, I don't see any 'of course' about it. She was here to-day for the first time. I don't see why she should begin by exchanging family confidences. All things considered, I should have thought it more than likely you referred to the other. However, I suppose you are familiar with her family history, too."
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