. He would paint the picture as truly, but only that the world
might bow before the beauty of his mistress. He would exhibit it in
Paris, and the multitude would worship the beautiful face that should
win him a world-wide fame. Then he would take it away from the gaping
throng and lay it, with the fame it brought him, at her feet.

The little clock on the mantel had long since chimed noon, and the hour
hand had crept around the circle nearly to five before he finally laid
aside his brushes and palette, and stepped back to view his finished
work.

"It is wonderful--wonderful," he said, aloud. "Oh, my precious darling!"

There was a sound behind him as of some one choking. He turned and stood
face to face with Evelin March. She was very pale, and her eyes burned
like two stars.

"Who is that woman?" she said, fiercely.

He knew that she had overheard him, but he endeavored to address her
calmly. He felt the cowardliness of his nature rising, and he cursed
himself inwardly.

"I--I was not expecting you to-day, Evelin," he stammered; "to-morrow,
you know, is the day for your sitting."

She did not take her eyes from the portrait; she had gone very close to
it and as she turned upon him to reply there was a mingled look of
terror and ferocity in her face.

"No, it is quite evident that you did not expect me, and that you were
too much absorbed to remember or care when my sitting was due. And now
you will please to answer my question. _Who is that woman?_"

What would he not have given, at that moment, to have had courage to
say, "She is to be my wife;" but the magnificent fury of the woman
before him, and the recollection of the shameful words of love he had
spoken to her, overwhelmed him.

"She is a--a Miss Delorme, I believe; a sitter of mine," he managed to
say at last.

"You believe! You lie! You know who she is, and you love her! You love
that nun-faced baby! I heard your words. You believe--you"--

"Evelin, stop!"

"Don't speak to me, you traitor! 'Your precious darling.' Oh, I could
kill her! I _will_ kill her!"

He could not understand this wild fury, that seemed to be half inspired
by a sort of terror. She had turned to the portrait again and was
examining it, oblivious, for the moment, to all else. Then suddenly she
turned upon him again with blazing eyes.

"I will kill her!" she hissed. "I could kill her with _that_," and she
pointed to the jeweled stiletto on the wall.

She was so magnificent