"You want a subject for a
picture. You have told me so. You are ambitious. If you were a dramatist,
I would give you three acts of a play--the fourth is yet to come; but you
shall have a scene to paint if you think it strong enough."
His eyes flashed. The artist's instinct was alive. In the eyes of the
woman was a fire which sent a glow over all her features. In herself she
was an inspiration to him, but he had not told her that. "Oh, yes," was
his reply, "I want it, if I may paint you in the scene."
"You may paint me in the scene," she said quietly. Then, as if it suddenly
came to her that she would be giving a secret into this man's hands, she
added, "That is, if you want me for a model merely."
"Mrs. Detlor," he said, "you may trust me, on my honor."
She looked at him, not searchingly, but with a clear, honest gaze such as
one sees oftenest in the eyes of children, yet she had seen the
duplicities of life backward and said calmly, "Yes, I can trust you."
"An artist's subject ought to be sacred to him," he said. "It becomes
himself, and then it isn't hard--to be silent."
They walked for a few moments, saying nothing. The terrace was filling
with people, so they went upon the veranda and sat down. There were no
chairs near them.
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