What is he doing here, _par exemple_,
instead of poking about among his glaciers? _Now_ I suppose he will
not rest till he has taken you from me again."

The frank selfishness of the man's first thought was so characteristic
that Quita smiled. But her smile had an edge to it.

"Set your mind at rest on that point," she said. "He is no more
anxious to claim--his property, than I am to be claimed."

"Curse him! Did he dare to tell you so?"

Quita lifted her head; a spark of anger flashed in her eyes.

"You seem to forget that he is a gentleman, and--my husband." Then,
recovering herself, she added more gently, "There are ways and ways of
telling things, _mon cher_, and since I have relieved your anxiety, we
need not mention him again. The subject is distasteful to me. Now, I
want to see how you have got on with the masterpiece!"

She went to the easel; and Maurice, following, stood at her elbow
anticipating the sweet savour of praise. For the picture was a notable
bit of work, daringly simple in colouring and design, yet arresting,
convincing, alive.

It represented a young girl, with the promise of womanhood on her
gravely sweet lips, and in the depths of her eyes, half-sitting upon
the crossed rails of the verandah. An ivory-white dress of Indian silk
fell in shimmering folds to her feet. A dawn of clear amber made a
tender background to the dull gold of her hair. Trailing sprays of the
rose that ran riot over the house drooped towards her; and a pine
branch, striking in abruptly, made an effective splash of shadow in an
atmosphere palpitating with the promise of fuller light. The only
intense bit of colour in the picture was the violet blue of Elsie
Mayhew's eyes--eyes that looked into you and through you to some
dream-world unsullied by the disconcerting realities of life, which
seemed only awaiting the given moment to rush in and dispel the dream.
For, as the sky gave promise of fuller light, so did the girl's spirit
seem hovering on the verge of fuller knowledge.

Such at least was Quita's thought, as she stood silently appraising her
brother's work; and it brought a contraction to her throat, a stinging
sensation to her eyeballs.

"I congratulate you, Michel," said she softly. "You have never done
anything to equal that. It is more than a portrait. It is an
interpretation, or will be, when it is complete. Her hopeless little
'Button Quail' of a mother won't understand it in the least, but