m her her fan, in reality to warn her, and he said, in a very low
voice that time:

"Let us go a little farther on. Lydia Maitland is too near."

He fancied he surprised a start on the part of Florent's sister, at whom
he accidentally glanced, while his too-sensible interlocutor no longer
watched her! But as the pretty, clear laugh of Lydia rang out at the same
moment, imprudent Alba replied:

"Fortunately, she has heard nothing. And see how one can speak of trouble
without mistrusting it.... I have just been wicked," she continued, "for
it is not their fault, neither Florent's nor hers, if there is a little
negro blood in their veins, so much the more so as it is connected by the
blood of a hero, and they are both perfectly educated, and what is
better, perfectly good, and then I know very well that if there is a
grand thought in this age it is to have proclaimed that truly all men are
brothers."

She had spoken in a lower voice, but too late. Moreover, even if
Florent's sister could have heard those words, they would not have
sufficed to heal the wound which the first ones had made in the most
sensitive part of her 'amour propre'!

"And I hesitated," said she to herself, "I thought of sparing her!"

The following morning, toward noon, she found herself at the atelier,
seated beside Madame Steno, while Lincoln gave to the portrait the last
touches, and while Alba posed in the large armchair, absent and pale as
usual. Florent Chapron, after having assisted at part of the sitting,
left the room, leaning upon the crutch, which he still used. His
withdrawal seemed so propitious to Lydia that she resolved immediately
not to allow such an opportunity to escape, and as if fatality interfered
to render her work of infamy more easy, Madame Steno aided her by
suddenly interrupting the work of the painter who, after hard working
without speaking for half an hour, paused to wipe his forehead, on which
were large drops of perspiration, so great was his excitement.

"Come, my little Linco," said she, with the affectionate solicitude of an
old mistress, "you must rest. For two hours you have not ceased painting,
and such minute details.... It tires me merely to watch you."

"I am not at all tired," replied Maitland, who, however, laid down his
palette and brush, and rolling a cigarette, lighted it, continuing, with
a proud smile: "We have only that one superiority, we Americans, but we
have it--it is a power to apply ourselve