While this most interesting affair was taking place between Ouida and her three admirers in one part of the house, another scene was being enacted in the studio, no less absorbing to the participants. Marie Salmon and Milton Royle, the art student, so objectionable to her father, were engaged in the most serious conversation of their young lives. “So,” said she, “you could not content yourself at Harvard?” “No. The restraint imposed by the set rules of college was slowly sapping up and killing my ambition. So I came here to realize my artistic dreams.” “Your leaving the university, Milton, has seriously displeased me.” “In what way, dearest Marie?” “Don’t attempt to mollify me by endearing terms. Now, you know that you had been selected on the boat crew, and the girls have whispered all around that you were afraid to stay.” “And does my little sweetheart,” said he, with infinite patience, “believe that silly story?” “Well,” she confessed, “of course I don’t exactly believe it, but the talk of the crowd hurts me. Then again, could you not study your art from a man?” “Oh,” said Milton, thinking to himself that if jealousy was at the bottom of his sweetheart’s apparent anger, surely he could scent trouble ahead. “Why don’t you answer?” she said. “I was thinking.” “You have no right to think. That is--I--well, I am almost beginning to hate Ouida Angelo.” “Why, that is really absurd, little one.” “Milton, I hate all things that seem to lead you from me.” “Nothing, and no one, can do that,” said Milton. “You are with her hours and hours; I almost forget how you look, I see you so seldom these days,” complained the girl. “Sweetheart, you are unfair. I am but working for that proud future which you shall share with me.” “I should like more of present joy and less of future hope.” “Is not the future,” said Milton, “worth a sacrifice?” “I am like a miser with his gold. I can spare nothing of that which is mine.” Milton seized her hand, raised it to his heart, and swore that his love was completely and fully hers. “Do you wish me,” he said, “to abandon my profession? Say but the word, and I will.” “Would you do that for me?” almost whispered Marie. “As surely as I live,” he replied. “And do you think I would accept such a sacrifice?” “Then my dear must not agonize me with these constant suspicions. They are unworthy of you.” “Then you do not love Ouida?” “I love the glorious art of which she is the mistress. I appreciate her because I grasp much from her cunning and deft craftsmanship. But you (clasping her to his breast) are the one woman whom Nature has sent for mating. Enough of this now. You do, you must, trust me.” She let her head sink gently on his breast. The struggle was over, and the tear-dimmed eyes that looked into his had no doubt in them, for they were lighted up by a faith eternal.