not permitted to see it. They
were made to wait until it was varnished and framed in one of the great,
bright Florentine frames of which they were so fond.

Gerald, while they took their first long, rapt look, stood at one side,
with a smile like a faun's when a faun is Mephistophelian.

Aurora, clasping her hands in a delight that could find no words to
express it, made a sound like the coo of a dove.

Estelle echoed this exclamation, but her charmed surprise did not ring
so true, if any one had been watchful enough to seize the shade of
difference. Because, not having been made to give a promise, she had
from time to time taken a look privately at the painting during its
progress. Aurora had known of this and been sorely tempted to do the
same, but had resisted the temptation, afraid of Gerald's bad opinion.

"My soul!" she murmured, really much moved.

Of course she knew that the portrait flattered her; but she felt as
Lauras and Leonoras and Lucastas no doubt felt when their poets
celebrated them under ideal forms in which their friends and families
may have had trouble to recognize them. The pride of having inspired an
immortal masterpiece must have stirred their hearts to gratitude toward
the gifted beings able to see them disencumbered from their faults, and
fix them for the contemplation of their own eyes and their neighbors' as
they had been at the best moment of their brightest hour.

[Illustration: Aurora, clasping her hands in a delight that could find
no words to express it, made a sound like the coo of a dove]

In the days when La Grande Mademoiselle was painted as Minerva, Aurora's
portrait might have been called "Mrs. Hawthorne as Venus." The
expression of her face was as void of history as the fair goddess's. The
tender beam of pleasure lighting it suggested that she might that moment
have been awarded the apple. The portrait was, nevertheless, in a way,
"Aurora all over," as Estelle pronounced it; but an Aurora whose
imperfections had been smoothed out of existence, and with them her
humor; an Aurora whose good working complexion, as she called it, had
been turned to lilies and roses, her hair of mortal gold to immortal
sunshine, and those sagacious orbs of blue, which made friends for her
by their twinkle, into melting azure stars.

The painter had, besides, glorified every detail of the setting: the
rich fabric of the dress, the creamy feathers of the fan, even the roses
of the breast-knot. T