welcome, I walked up to the door and knocked. A voice called out, 'Come in!' and, turning the handle, I found myself in the presence of—a woman! For a moment I was too surprised to speak. She was mounted on a short step-ladder, arranging some velvet draperies, and at my entrance she turned and, with the rich-hued stuffs forming a background for the pose of the most beautiful figure woman could boast of, faced me with as much ease and composure as—well, as I lacked.
"'Mr. Trenoweth?' she asked inquiringly.
"Her voice was one of those low, rich, contralto voices, so rare and so beautiful."
"She was arranging some velvet draperies."
His own voice trembled; he glanced again at the sketch in his hand. "But then everything about her was beautiful and perfect. That says enough. 'I'm not Mr. Trenoweth,' I said, 'I'm only an artist living in the next studio. I—I came here to see if Mr. Delaporte had arrived; I beg your pardon for intruding.'
"'Do not apologise,' she said frankly. 'This studio is let to me, and you are very welcome.'
"'To you?' I said somewhat foolishly. 'I thought you were a man.'
"She laughed. 'I have not that privilege,' she said. 'But I am an artist, and art takes no count of sex. I hope we shall be friends as well as neighbours.'
"I echoed that wish heartily enough. Who would not in my place, and with so charming a companion? There and then I set to work to help her arrange her studio and fix her easel. The picture seemed very large, to judge from the canvas, but she would not let me see it then. I forgot fatigue, hunger, everything. I thought I had never met a woman with so perfect a charm of manner. The ease and grace and dignity of perfect breeding, yet withal a frank and gracious cordiality that was as winning as it was resistless. But there—what use to say all this! Only when I once begin to talk of Musette Delaporte I feel I could go on for ever.
"That was a memorable evening. When the studio was arranged to her satisfaction, she made me some tea with a little spirit-lamp arrangement she had, and then we locked up the room, and I took her through the little village to try and find lodgings. Of course, Jasper and I having decided that M. Delaporte was a man, had expected him to rough it like the rest of us. I could not let her stay in Trenewlyn itself, but took her up the hill-side to a farmhouse, where I felt certain they would accommodate her. She was in raptures with the place, and I agreed with her that it was a paradise, as indeed it seemed to me on that August night. I remember the moon shining over the bay, the fleet of boats standing out to sea, the lights from the town and villages scattered along the coast, or amidst the sloping hills. I did not wonder she was charmed; we all have felt that charm here, and it doesn't lessen with time; we all have acknowledged that also. . . . But I must hurry on. When Trenoweth heard of the new artist's sex he was rather put out. I could not see why myself, and I agreed that the mistake was our own. M might stand for Mary, or Magdalen, or Marietta, just as well as
