likeness
was marvellous. As for Miss Kingsley, she whispered in my ear,--

"Did you sit for it, dear?"

"No, I did not," I answered.

"Detestable philosophy!" continued Mr. Spence, looking from the canvas
to the artist. "There was the making of a man in you,--this portrait
shows it. But it is too late. The brute is rampant, and genius is no
more."

"She could have moulded me in her hands like clay," said Paul Barr. I
could not help feeling touched by the despair in his voice.

"How distinctly piteous!" murmured Miss Kingsley.

"I have no more to say. You have heard my decision, Paul Barr."

Mr. Spence seemed greatly moved and excited. I could see him tremble. It
was very bitter to me to feel that on my account friends of a lifetime
were to be separated. The big artist pulled at his beard, and with
another of his faun-like looks, exclaimed,--

"I understand. You want her for yourself. But you cannot rob me of those
kisses, ha! ha! They shall lie in the grave with me, and I shall still
smile."

Mr. Spence grew paler yet. He seemed about to speak, but controlling
himself by an effort turned to leave the room, motioning us to precede
him.

"How distinctly piteous!" repeated Miss Kingsley, as we went downstairs.
"He acted shamefully, of course, and there is no excuse for his conduct.
But though it is impossible to justify him, I can pity him, can't you?
His nature is so impressionable; and when he is interested in anything
there is no half way with him: he wants the whole or nothing. If you
will excuse my saying so, several of us have been afraid of something of
this sort. I wanted to warn you; but I said to myself, 'It may be
Virginia really likes him,' so I decided not to speak. If I had done so,
all this might have been prevented, for it was very evident to the rest
of us that he was desperately in love with you. And by such a man, of
course the very smallest marks of favor are construed as more
significant than open encouragement would be by a less poetic
temperament. I have no doubt the poor fellow wears over his heart every
rose-bud you ever gave him, and knows by rote every word of sympathy you
ever said to him. And then that portrait,--what volumes it tells of
itself! Fancy that ardent soul toiling over the canvas to reproduce from
memory your image (you tell me you did not sit to him), and when the
masterpiece of his life was finished, inviting you to his studio (as I
suppose he did), and then in a mom