"I know one so transcendently lovely that the half of her beauty can never be transferred to canvas," said Leslie Dane, while a flush of pride rose over his features. "In America?" asked Carl. "In America," answered Leslie. "Whew!" said the German, comprehensively. "I thought you did not care for women, Mr. Dane." "I never said so, Carl," said Leslie Dane, smiling. "I know--but actions speak louder than words. You avoid them, you decline invitations where you are likely to meet them, and the handsome models vote you a perfect bear." "Because there is but one woman in the whole world to me," answered Leslie Dane, and he paused a moment in his painting, and looked away with a world of tenderness in his large, dark eyes. Carl Muller began to look interested. "Ah! now I see why you work so hard," he said. "There is a woman at the bottom of it. There is always a woman at the bottom of everything that goes on in this world whether it be good or evil." "Yes, I suppose so," said Leslie, resuming his work with a sigh to the memory of the absent girl he loved. "Love rules the court, the camp, the grove, For love is heaven, and heaven is love," hummed Carl in his rich tenor voice. "Leslie, you will accompany me to the _fete_ to-night?" said he, presently. "Thank you. I do not care to go," said Leslie. "Heavens, what a selfish fellow!" said Carl, turning back to the window. Silence fell between them again. The soft breeze came sighing in at the window ruffling Carl's sunny curls and caressing Leslie Dane's cheek with viewless fingers. A pot of violets on the window ledge filled the air with delicate perfume. After that evening the scent of violets always came to Leslie Dane wedded to a painful memory. There was a heavy step at the door. Their portly landlady pushed her head into the room. "Letters, gentlemen," she said. Carl Muller sprang up with alacrity. "All for me, of course," he said. "Nobody ever writes to Dane." He took the packet and went back to his seat, while his companion, with a smothered sigh, went on with his work. It was quite true that no one ever wrote to him, yet he still kept waiting and hoping for one dear letter that never--never came. "Ah, by Jove! but I was mistaken," Carl broke out suddenly. "Hurrah, Leslie, here's a love letter from the girl you left behind you." He held up a little creamy-hued envelope, smooth and thick as satin, addressed in a lady's elegant hand, and Leslie Dane caught it almost rudely from him. Carl gave a significant whistle and returned to his own correspondence. Leslie Dane tore open the letter so long waited and hoped for, and devoured its contents with passionate impatience. It was very brief. Let us glance over his shoulder and read what was written there: