e betrayed some concern, for he took a friendly
interest in my career.

"The title--a mere label--suggests it. But nothing of the sort. I am
going to paint a portrait of Manon--and of her ilk."

"A portrait?"

"Yes; the portrait of a type."

Carrington smoked on, stretched comfortably in a chair. His feet were on
another chair, and the broad soles of his slippers so displayed implied
ease and intimacy.

"It will look like the portrait of an actress in character; a costume
picture," he said, presently; "the label isn't suggestive to me."

"There will, I promise you, be no trace of commonplace realism in it. It
will be Velasquez dashed with Watteau. Can you realize the modest flight
of my imagination? Seriously, Carrington, I intend to paint a
masterpiece. I intend to paint a woman who would sell her soul for
pleasure--a conscienceless, fascinating egotist--a corrupt
charmer--saved by a certain _naivete_. The eighteenth century, in fact,
_en grisette_."

"Manon rather redeemed herself at the end, if I remember rightly,"
Carrington observed.

"Or circumstances redeemed her, if you will. She had a heart, perhaps;
it never made her uncomfortable. Her love was of the doubtful quality
that flies out of the window as want comes in at the door. Oh! she was a
sweet little _scelerate_. I shall paint the type--the little
_scelerate_."

"Well, of course, everything would depend on the treatment."

"Everything. I am going to astonish you there, Carrington."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Carrington said, good-humouredly.

"I see already the golden gray of her dim white boudoir; the satins, the
laces, the high-heeled shoes, the rigid little waist, and face of pretty
depravity. The face is the thing--the key. Where find the face? I think
of a trip to Paris on purpose. One sees the glancing creature--such as I
have in my mind--there, now and then. I want a fresh pallor, and gay,
lazy eyes--light-brown, not too large."

"I fancy I know of someone," Carrington said, meditatively. "Not that
she's _dans le caractere_," he added: "not at all; anything but
depraved. But--her face; you could select." Carrington mused. "The line
of her cheek is, I remember, mockingly at variance with her staid
innocence of look."

"Who is she? Manon could _look_ innocent, you know--was so, after a
fashion. I should like a touch of childish _insouciance_. Who is she,
and how can I get her?"

"Well," said Carrington, taking his pipe from his