"It must be true," he said to himself, "for that would explain why he was so discourteous about painting her portrait. He did not wish to be thrown into familiar contact with her again. Perhaps she had used him cruelly. It may be that she threw him over because he was poor and unknown, then, and accepted me only for the sake of my wealth." He was nearly maddened by these tumultuous thoughts. He was almost on the point of going to her at once and overwhelming her with the accusation of her wrong-doing. At that moment the signal came and his guests unmasked. He saw Monsieur Favart coming toward him accompanied by a handsome distinguished-looking young man in the costume of a knight. He had never met the great Roman artist, yet he felt a quick intuition that this must be the man. The premonition was verified for Monsieur Favart paused before him and said: "Colonel Carlyle, it gives me pleasure to present my artist friend, Mr. Dane." The two gentlemen bowed to each other, but for a moment Colonel Carlyle could not speak. When he did his voice was hoarse and strained, and his words of welcome were so few that Monsieur Favart looked at him in surprise. What had become of the old colonel's urbanity and courtliness? "You will allow me to present you to my wife, Mr. Dane," said the host, breaking the silence with an effort. The artist bowed and they moved down the long room side by side, the old man with his white face and silvery beard, the young one with his princely grace and refined beauty. Leslie Dane had been most reluctant to attend the ball given by the American colonel, but Carl Muller had teased him into compliance. He had nerved himself for the trial, and found that he could bear the contact with one from his native land with more _sang froid_ than he expected. "Now I shall see the old lady," was his half-smiling comment to himself as he walked along. "I wonder if she is very angry with me because I would not paint her portrait." The next moment, before he had time to raise his eyes, he found himself bowing hurriedly at the sound of his host's voice uttering the usual formal words of introduction. Bonnibel was standing alone by a tall _jardiniere_ of flowers, looking downward a little thoughtfully. She was dressed as Undine, in a floating robe of sea-green, with billows of snowy tulle, looped with water-lilies and sea-grasses, and lightly embroidered with pearls and tiny sea-shells. Her appropriate ornaments were _aquamarines_ in a setting of golden shells. Her long, golden hair fell unbound over her shoulders and rippled to her waist, enveloping her form in a halo of brightness. She looked like a beautiful siren of old ocean, as fair and fresh and beautiful as Venus when she first arose from its coral caves. Someone had said to her just a moment before, "Mrs. Carlyle, you look like a beautiful picture," and the words had recalled to her mind the great artist who had refused to paint her portrait.