chew gum."

"None of us quite live up to our best intentions," he replied, laughing.
"Peta thinks she's gaining in grace. Most of the white ladies she knows
chew gum."

The pictures were an old story to Miss Cooke, who shivered for a time in
silence and at last withdrew. Elsie and Curtis were deep in discussion
of the effect of white man's clothing on the Tetongs, but each was aware
of a subtle change in the other as the third person was withdrawn. A
delicious sense of danger, of inward impulse warring with outward
restraint, added zest to their intercourse. He instantly recalled the
last time he stood in her studio feeling her frank contempt of him. "I
am on a different footing now," he thought, with a certain exultation.
It was worth years of hardship and hunger and cold to stand side by side
with a woman who had not merely beauty and wealth but talent, and a
mysterious quality that was more alluring than beauty or intellect. What
this was he could not tell, but it had already made life a new game to
him.

She, on her part, exulted with a sudden sense of having him to herself
for experiment, and every motion of his body, every tone of his voice
she noted and admired.

He resumed: "Naturally, I can say nothing of the technique of these
pictures. My praise of them must be on the score of their likeness to
the people. They are all admirable portraits, exact and spirited, and
yet--" He hesitated, with wrinkled brows.

"Don't spare me!" she cried out. "Cut me up if you can!"

"Well, then, they seem to me unsympathetic. For example, the best of
them all is Peta, because you liked her, you comprehended her, partly,
for she was a child, gentle and sweet. But you have painted old Crawling
Elk as if he were a felonious mendicant. You've delineated his rags, his
wrinkled skin, his knotted hands, but you've left the light out of his
eyes. Let me tell you something about that old man. When I saw him first
he was sitting on the high bank of the river, motionless as bronze, and
as silent. He was mourning the loss of his little grandchild, and had
been there two days and two nights wailing till his voice had sunk to a
whisper. His rags were a sign of his utter despair. You didn't know that
when you painted him, did you?"

"No, I did not," she replied, softly.

"Moreover, Crawling Elk is the annalist and story-teller of his tribe.
He carries the 'winter count' and the sacred pipe, and can tell you of
every movement of the Te