ver to where, standing behind her chair, he
shared her point of view. Even the exaltation of his
success did not prevent his impatient wonder why his
relation with this girl must always be so uncomfortable.

Then as he stood in silence looking with her, it seemed
that he saw with her, and the thing that he had done
revealed itself to him for the first time fully,
convincingly, with no appeal. He looked at it with curious,
painful interest, but without remorse, even in the
knowledge that she saw it too, and suffered. He realized
exultingly that he had done better work than he thought
--he might repent later, but for the moment he could feel
nothing but that. As to the girl before him, she was
simply the source and the reason of it--he was particularly
glad he had happened to come across her.

He had echoed her talk of disguises, and his words embodied
the unconscious perception under which he worked. He had
selected a disguise, and, as she wished, a becoming one.
But he had not used it fairly, seriously. He had thrown
it over her face like a veil, if anything could be a veil
which rather revealed than hid, rather emphasized than
softened, the human secret of the face underneath. He
realized now that he had been guided by a broader
perception, by deeper instincts, in painting that. It
was the real Elfrida.

There was still a moment before she spoke. He wondered
vaguely how she would take it, and he was conscious of
an anxiety to get it over. At last she rose and faced
him, with one hand, that trembled, resting on the back
of the chair. Her face wore a look that was almost
profound, and there was an acknowledgment in it, a degree
of submission, which startled him.

"So that is how you have read me," she said, looking
again at the portrait "Oh, I do not find fault; I would
like to, but I dare not. I am not sure enough that you
are wrong--no, I am too sure that you are right. I am,
indeed, very much preoccupied with myself. I have always
been--I shall always be. Don't think I shall reform after
this moral shock as people do in books. I am what I am.
But I acknowledge that an egotist doesn't make an agreeable
picture, however charmingly you apologize for her. It is
a personality of stone, isn't it?--implacable, unchangeable.
I've often felt that."

Kendal was incapable of denying a word of what she said.
"If it is any comfort to you to know it," he ventured,
"hardly any one will see in it what you--and I--see."