can nourish it, and make it strong. If one's eye is not true, and one's hand is not docile, if one does not see the outward expression, and understand the soul that is beneath, then one had better give up the endeavour to give the world that which has not been created for it by someone else."
"But all men have studied in some school."
"All, with exceptions, monsieur."
"My wife tells me that you and she had many talks together."
"Madame is most kind to remember."
"Madame is most kind to remember;" the painter's voice was cynical again; "for in those days I was nobody, and had nothing save ambitions." He was silent for a moment, and looked into the fire. "It was a pleasant ménage," he went on, as if he were talking to himself; "M. and Madame Carton, Madame Brooke and mademoiselle, one or two others, and myself who had been received because my father had also been a soldier, and was known to M. Carton."
"Was the Pavillon Rouge near the Château?" Lord Harlekston asked, remembering Carbouche's picture.
"Ah no, monsieur, it was half an hour from the Château, outside St. Germain altogether, on the road to the forest of Marly. But I am keeping you, monsieur. These recollections are after all of little interest. Express my compliments to madame."
"But the portrait, M. Carbouche?"
"I do not understand why madame should wish to sit to me; we have not met since she left St. Germain."
"She does wish it, and she hoped that you would consent for the sake of your old acquaintance, which it has always been a great pleasure to her to remember."
Carbouche frowned, and was silent for a moment, then suddenly he looked up.
"Monsieur," he said, "I should think it a pleasure to paint a portrait of Madame la Comtesse."
III.
The logs were piled on the studio fire again. The light was carefully arranged. On the easel was a small canvas, large enough perhaps for a head and shoulders, but no more. On a slightly raised platform was a chair. Carbouche was awaiting his sitter; and walked up and down expecting to hear again the sound that had disturbed him three mornings ago. "Madame la Comtesse," he said to himself; "Madeline e-egh," and an ugly sound came from his lips, but it was an expression of pain. "Perhaps she wears the grey squirrel round her throat still. It must be a different throat from that of three and twenty years ago. Mon Dieu, but if things had come at the other end of life instead of at this"—he stopped before the portfolio in the corner, and pulled out the canvas from behind it. It represented some chestnut trees in a forest, and a youth who was trying to see the face of a girl, but she had turned away from him. "I wish I had seen her eyes then, I should have known," he said. In a corner was written "Marly, 18—." He put the picture back with a sigh, and paced up and down again. Then the door opened, and a tall, graceful woman entered. Carbouche bowed formally, his face grew hard, but he looked curiously at his visitor, trying to see her features through the lace veil that covered them.
"How do you do, M. Carbouche? It is indeed a pleasure to see you again." Her voice was low and sweet, and his heart stirred to but he set his teeth together and answered stiffly—
"Bon jour, madame; I am to have the honour of painting your portrait."
"It is too good of you to consent," she said, and came a step forward. He listened.
