Arm in arm they went into Milton’s work-room, where for some time he delighted her with an exhibition of his work, the progress he was making, and he poured into her willing and sympathetic ear, the story of his future dreams and aspirations, so that she saw more clearly than ever, that the only mistress beside herself which Milton had, was Art. CHAPTER XI. A PREACHER’S PASSION. The departure of the editor, politician and broker left Ouida in a very reflective mood. Strange to say, her mind wandered to Paul, the model, as it had often done of late. “I’ll soon call my Herculean model forth. Paul, the perfect brute! Yet, often when he thinks I am not observing, there comes into his eyes a look that makes me tremble, though I know not why. Can it be that I, who have a dozen mighty men, as this world goes, crawling at my feet, am falling captive to a coarse-grained beast, that sleeps and feeds from day to day throughout the year, without a thought or hope beyond the common cattle of the field?” At this moment a card was handed Ouida, the reading of which filled her eyes with an almost devilish gleam of satisfaction. “Show the gentleman up,” was her swift command. It was but a moment when Horatio Nugent, the great preacher, appeared before the sculptress! “By admitting me to your presence, may I hope there is a truce between us?” he almost humbly said. “Neither peace nor courtesy moved me to see you,” was her unsatisfactory answer. “Then why your apparent graciousness?” “I desire,” said Ouida, “to declare a never-ending war.” “Will you not,” appealed the preacher, “even listen to what I have to say?” “No. Your course admits of no explanation. Let me tell you now, you can never creep again within the circle of my friendship.” “If you could but dig beneath the surface,” he audibly sighed, “and see why I preached my sermon against the nude in art, ’twould be _you_, not _I_, seeking pardon.” “I seek your pardon after that which you have done? Listen,” said the woman, “you played the part of a friend. You sought _me_ out. To you I unfolded my dreams, my conceptions. You said they were divine, and yet when I attended your church, you thundered forth invectives against my art, and hold me up to public ridicule. You would attempt to win a public applause as fleeting as the dew upon the morning rose. If I had loved you, I would hate you for this act.” “I will explain,” he said, with vehemence and commanding power before which, even for a moment, this imperious creature quailed. “I am not like the vain flatterers that follow in your train. I will speak, even if the hate in you, like a dagger, shall stab me in a vital spot.” “Speak then,” said she, with resignation. “Courtesy compels me to listen to one who has honored my humble roof with his august presence.” “Ah, hear me Ouida. The knowledge, sudden and fierce, has forced itself upon me, that I love you with all the strength of my nature!”