on of a poor white man of the
South, whom even negroes once pitied, had recruited his palace guard
from the children of the Caesars. Could any fact more loudly proclaim
the passing of the era of political fictions and the dawn of the age of
materialism, the passing of the king who ruled by divine right and the
coming of the reign of the huckster?

Stuart was shown into the drawing room by a powdered flunky whose
costume was designed by one of the court tailors of Europe. While
awaiting the arrival of the mistress of the house he looked about the
room with increasing amazement. He had expected to find that the
authority of the artist-architect would yield at the door to the
personal whims of the owner. He expected to find here a vulgar and
extravagant taste, a vernal art without mind or genius. Instead he
found the perfection of grace, elegance, quiet richness and surprising
beauty, everywhere the overwhelming impression of conscious dignity and
exhaustless reserve power.

He rubbed his eyes to see if he were dreaming, entranced with his
surroundings. In spite of the tragedy it all meant to his own life he
drank in its effects as a poet long exiled from his native land drinks
in the beauty and glory of his home-coming. Somewhere in this world or
another in the mists of eternity his soul had seen this before. The
whole conception of the thing was noble and it had been nobly and
beautifully executed. The artist who wrought his vision thus in matter
had sung for joy in its creation and the joyous beat of his heart
throbbed in the rhythm of every exquisite line.

He began to realize for the first time the triumph of the woman who had
bartered him for gold. His eye rested on a life-size portrait of Nan
done by the foremost artist of Europe. It filled the entire space above
the great mantel reaching to the ceiling and so skilfully had it been
set in the massive panel one seemed to be looking through an opening
into another room--the figure was not a picture but the living woman
about to extend her hand in friendly greeting to her guests.

The artist had caught the secret of her character and expressed it with
genius in the poise of the superb form, the incarnation of sensuous
soulless beauty dominated by keen intelligence.

This portrait on which he stood gazing as if in a spell was evidently
painted the second year of their marriage. He remembered now her diary
had given an account of it when the painter came over from t