on the face of Lady Harlekston and in her whole bearing, handsome and fashionable woman though she was counted, there was something artificial and worldly. Carbouche saw it, and forgave her nothing.
"And now, Susette, you may go; the sitting was to be two hours, was it not, monsieur? At one o'clock you can return; bring the carriage, for I shall be tired."
"Your maid can wait if you prefer it, madame. There is a chair by the fire."
"Ah no; she has some shopping to do. Besides, we are old friends, monsieur." There was something very French in her manner, even he recognised it. "And I want—I want," she lingered over the words until the door was shut behind the maid, "to have some talk, it would be impossible before a maid." Carbouche shrank back.
"Pardon, madame," he said, as he motioned her to the chair on the platform and looked for his charcoal stick; "but I have not the honour of being an old friend; it is not ten minutes since you arrived."
"I was thinking of years ago," she said in her low voice.
"The years ago have no more concern with us, madame, than the dead who lie in their graves. To-day we have to think of your portrait. Will you have the goodness to turn a little more to the light?" and he stepped back to look at her pose.
"Am I very much changed?" she asked sadly. "Time is an envious thing, madame, and takes something from us all," Carbouche said as he began to draw on his canvas, "it is seldom so self-denying as to take least from the beautiful." She made a little grimace that had been studied, and it had its effect upon him accordingly. For a few minutes neither of them spoke. "You were surprised when you heard who your sitter was to be Hen—M. Carbouche?" she corrected herself almost elaborately, and watched the effect of her seemingly careless slip upon him. His manner was colder and still more formal than before, and he answered—
"I was thinking of years ago."
"There are many unexpected things in life, Madame la Comtesse; but as one grows old one is seldom much surprised," and again there was a silence.
"You find it difficult to talk while you paint?" she asked.
"As a rule I prefer to be silent, madame."
"I long so much to hear about yourself."
"I am flattered at madame's longing," he said coldly.
"I have watched your career with much interest."
"I am honoured at madame's interest," and he went on with his work. Lady Harlekston was baffled. When he looked up at her there was no expression on his face except one of desire to accomplish accurately the portrait on which he was engaged. Evidently he worked with extraordinary quickness and decision. An hour passed, a good deal of progress had been made with the portrait, but the painter and his sitter were precisely on the terms they had been the moment after her arrival.
Presently she made a bold venture. "Have you been to St. Germain lately?" she asked suddenly.
"No, madame."
"It is a dear place," she said, "I long to see it again."
"That would not be difficult," he answered absently, as if his whole attention were given to his work. "It is not an hour from Paris, and the trains are frequent."
"It is full of memories, it would only make me sad," she said with a sigh, but he was silent. "It is a beautiful place," she added.
"It is not beautiful now, madame," he said grimly; "it is winter,
