Ted's heart gave a bound as he set to work. He had learnt by this time to control the trembling of his hands, otherwise the portrait would never have reached its present perfection. He had painted from many women in the life school, and always with the same emotions, the same reverence for womanhood, and the same delight in his own power, tempered by compassion for the model. But these were so many studies in still life compared with the incarnate loveliness before him--Audrey: it made him feel giddy to paint the edge of the ruffles about her throat, or the tip of her shoe. Her beauty throbbed like pulses of light, it floated in air and went to his head like the scent of her lilies. He had reproduced this radiant, throbbing effect in his picture. It was a head, the delicate oval of the full face relieved against a background of atmospheric gold into which the golden surface tints of the hair faded imperceptibly. The eyebrows were arched a little over the earnest, unfathomable eyes; the lips were parted as if with impetuous breath; the whole head leaned slightly forward, giving prominence to the chin, which in reality retreated, a defect chiefly noticeable in profile. Ted had painted what he saw. It might have been the head of a saint looking for the Beatific Vision; it was only that of an ordinary pretty woman. As a rule, they both chattered freely during the sittings. This is, of course, necessary, if the artist is to know his sitter's face with all its varying expressions; and Audrey had given Ted a great many to choose from. This morning, however, he worked steadily and in a silence which she was the first to break. "What do you mean by talking about one more sitting in that way? You said you'd want six yesterday." "I did, but----" He leaned back and began tilting his chair to and fro. "The fact is--I'm awfully sorry, but I'm afraid I'm going to leave England." The young rascal had chosen his words with a deliberate view to effect, and Audrey's first thoughts flew to America, though not to Hardy. She moved suddenly in her chair. "To emigrate? You, with your genius? Surely not!" "No, rather not; it's not as bad as all that. But--I'm afraid I have to go to Paris for six months or so." "Whatever for?" "Well--I must, you see." "Must you? And for six months, too; why?" "Because I--that is--I want to study for a bit in the schools there." "Oh,"--she leaned back again among her cushions, and looked down at her hands clasped demurely,--"if you want to go, that's another thing." "It isn't another thing; and I don't want to go, as it happens." "Then I am sure you needn't go and study; what can they teach you that you don't know?" she leaned forward and looked into his face. "You're not going in for that horrid French style, surely?" "Well, I'd some thoughts----" he hesitated, and Audrey took courage.