ow
he felt a calm in the midway of his life and that desire for domestic
ease which sooner or later overtakes all men. He fancied himself
painting Elaine on just such tranquil summer afternoons under a soft
light. And oh! the joys of long walks, discreet gossip, and dinners at a
well-served table with a few chosen friends. Was he, after all, longing
for the flesh-pots of the philistine--he, Hubert Falcroft, who had
patrolled the boulevards like other sportsmen of midnight!

At last the picture began to glow with that inner light he had so
patiently pursued. Elaine Mineur looked at him from the canvas with
veiled sweetness, a smile almost enigmatic lurking about her lips.
Deepen a few lines and her expression would be one of contented
sleekness. _That_ Hubert had missed by a stroke. It was in her eyes that
her chief glory abided. They were pathetic without resignation, liquid
without humidity, indescribable in colouring and form. Their full cup
and the accents which experience had graven under them were something he
had never dreamed of realizing. It was a Cosway; but a Cosway broadened
and without a hint of genteel namby-pamby or overelaborate finesse.
Hubert was fairly satisfied. Madame Mineur had little to say. During the
sittings she seldom spoke, and if their eyes met, the richness of her
glance was a compensation for her lack of loquacity. Hubert did not
complain. He was in no hurry. To be under the same roof with this
adorable woman was all that he asked.

The day after he had finished his picture, he returned to Chalfontaine
for the midday breakfast. Berenice was absent--in her room with a
headache, her mother explained. The weather was sultry. He questioned
Elaine during the meal. Had Berenice's temper improved? They passed out
to the balcony where their coffee was served, and when he lighted his
cigarette, Madame Mineur begged to be excused. She had promised Cousin
Eloise to pay some calls. He strolled over the lawn, watching the
hummocks of white clouds which piled up in architectural masses across
the southern sky. Then he remembered the portrait and mounted to the
atelier. As he put his hand on the knob of the door he thought he heard
some one weeping. Suddenly the door was pulled from his grasp and
Berenice appeared. Her hair hung on her shoulders. She was in a white
dressing-gown. Her face was red and her eyes swollen. She did not
attempt to move. Affectionately Hubert caught her in his arms and asked
ab