y.

When Mrs. Taine went to the artist, in the studio, the next day, she found
him in the act of re-tying the package of his mother's letters. For nearly
an hour, he had been reading them. For nearly an hour before that, he had
been seated, motionless, before the picture that Conrad Lagrange had said
was a portrait of the Spirit of Nature.

When Mrs. Taine had slipped off her wrap, and stood before him gowned in
the dress that so revealed the fleshly charms it pretended to hide, she
indicated the letters in the artist's hands, with an insinuating laugh;
while there was a glint of more than passing curiosity in her eyes. "Dear
me," she said, "I hope I am not intruding upon the claims of some absent
affinity."

Aaron King gravely held out his hand with the package of letters, saying
quietly, "They are from my mother."

And the woman had sufficient grace to blush, for once, with unfeigned
shame.

When he had received her apologies, and, putting aside the letters, had
succeeded in making her forget the incident, he said, "And now, if you are
ready, shall we begin?"

For some time the painter stood before the picture on his easel, without
touching palette or brush, studying the face of the woman who posed for
him. By a slight movement of her eyes, without turning her head, she could
look him fairly in the face. Presently as he continued to gaze at her so
intently, she laughed; and, with a little shrug of her shoulders and a
pretense as of being cold, said, "When you look at me that way, I feel as
though you had surprised me at my bath."

The artist turned his attention instantly to his color-box. While setting
his palette, with his eyes upon his task, he said deliberately, "'Venus
Surprised at the Bath.' Do you know that you would make a lovely Venus?"

With a low laugh, she returned, daringly. "Would you care to paint me as
the Goddess of Love?"

He, still, did not look at her; but answered, while, with deliberate care,
he selected a few brushes from the Chinese jar near the easel, "Venus is
always a very popular subject, you know."

She did not speak for a moment or two; and the painter felt her watching
him. As he turned to his canvas--still careful not to look in her
direction--she said, suggestively, "I suppose you could change the face so
that no one would know it was I who posed."

The man remembered her carefully acquired reputation for modesty, but held
to his purpose, saying, as if considering the ques