“Not at all,” answered De Breulh quietly; “I have my own way of doing business, from which I never deviate.” In spite of this answer Andre’s pride was hurt. “But,” remarked he, “this picture will not be ready for perhaps six or seven months. I have entered into a contract with a wealthy builder, named Candele, to execute the outside decorations of his house.” “Never mind that,” answered M. de Breulh; “take as long as you like.” Of course, after this, Andre could offer no further opposition; he therefore took the money without another word. “And now,” said De Breulh, as he paused for a moment at the open doorway, “let me wish you my good luck, and if you will come and breakfast with me one day, I think I can show you some pictures which you will really appreciate.” And handing his card to the artist, he went downstairs. At first Andre did not glance at the card, but when he did so, the letters seemed to sear his eyeballs like a red-hot iron. For a moment he could hardly breathe, and then a feeling of intense anger took possession of him, for he felt that he had been trifled with and deceived. Hardly knowing what he was doing, he rushed out on the landing, and, leaning over the banister, called out loudly, “Sir, stop a moment!” De Breulh, who had by this time reached the bottom of the staircase, turned round. “Come back, if you please,” said Andre. After a moment’s hesitation, De Breulh obeyed; and when he was again in the studio, Andre addressed him in a voice that quivered with indignation. “Take back these notes, sir; I will not accept them.” “What do you mean?” “Only that I have thought the matter over, and that I will not accept your commission.” “And why this sudden change?” “You know perfectly well, M. de Breulh-Faverlay.” The gentleman at once saw that Sabine had mentioned his name to the young artist, and with a slight lacking of generous feeling said,-- “Let me hear your reasons, sir.” “Because, because----” stammered the young man. “Because is not an answer.” Andre’s confusion became greater. He would not tell the whole truth, for he would have died sooner than bring Sabine’s name into the discussion; and he could only see one way out of his difficulty. “Suppose I say that I do not like your manner or appearance,” returned he disdainfully. “Is it your wish to insult me, M. Andre?” “As you choose to take it.” M. de Breulh was not gifted with an immense stock of patience. He turned livid, and made a step forward; but his generous impulses restrained him, and it was in a voice broken by agitation that he said,-- “Accept my apologies, M. Andre; I fear that I have played a part unworthy of you and of myself. I ought to have given you my name at once. I know everything.” “I do not comprehend you,” answered Andre in a glacial voice.