n 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 ourselves which the Old