with an odd gratitude at the rustle of her dress. Then he answered—
"To paint is my business in life, madame." There was standing behind Lady Harlekston a trim-looking lady's maid; Carbouche looked at her inquiringly.
"It is only my maid, Susette," Lady Harlekston explained; "she will arrange me," and then she looked at Carbouche's face. "It is strange to meet you again; I have often wished"
"We will begin your portrait, madame, at once if you will make yourself ready."
"It is strange to meet you again."
"Ah, yes, we must not waste your time; it is too precious. Susette," she unhooked her cloak, and the maid took it. With almost hungry eyes the painter watched her. The figure beneath the cloak was slim enough, though naturally in three and twenty years it had lost its girlishness. He had seen, too, the moment she entered, that the freedom of movement of old days had developed into a womanly ease that had with it especially an air of distinction. Then the maid undid her veil, which had been fastened by a little tortoise-shell arrow, and Carbouche saw in a moment, with his keen quick eyes that took in every detail and refused him any illusions, that, though her hair was golden, still its colouring was harsher than formerly. "Ah," he thought, "there had been many winters since the summer end in which we said 'Good-bye'; and, when the sunshine goes, one has to make a substitute as best one can." She turned towards him a little reluctantly.
"I am changed," she said, with something that was almost pathetic in her voice, and a smile that asked him to contradict her, but he answered with extreme gravity.
"Naturally, madame, we are both changed—you are Madame la Comtesse, and I am an old man."
"Ah no, not old, monsieur," she said with a smile that was meant to be winning; a little dislike shot through him. Suddenly he saw her face, and something that was almost hatred took possession of him. The eyes that looked up at him were not as blue as formerly, and they had lost their look of trustfulness. Her eyebrows were fine and arched and darker than her hair. Lady Harlekston was not the daughter of a Frenchwoman for nothing, and knew well, as years advanced, how to offer nature the little attentions of art. There was a flush upon her cheek; he remembered the flush of old, and knit his brows when he saw the one that was there now. And her lips had lost their moulding and their colour, her chin had taken to itself a little firmness, and about her face were lines that nothing would ever smooth away save death, which often, when it gathers in the years to itself, gathers in their footprints too, and leaves the face smooth as if the traveller, having reached the end of his circle, had met his youth again. There was no disguising it,
