He was still in his chair, the studio a blaze of light, when a brother painter from the studio opposite, whose knock had been unheeded, pushed open the door. Even then Gregg did not stir until the intruder laid a hand upon his shoulder. VI By noon the next day half the occupants of the old studio building came in to see the new portrait. He had not told of this one, but the brother painter had spread the news of the "find" through the building. It was not the first time Adam Gregg's "finds" had been the subject of discussion among his fellows. The sketch by Velasquez--now the pride of the gallery that owned it--and which had been discovered by him in a lumber-room over a market, and the Romney which had been doing duty as a chimney-screen, had been the talk of the town for weeks. "Looks more like a Sully than a Stuart," said the brother painter, his eyes half closed to get the better effect. "Got all Sully's coloring." "Stunning girl, anyway; doesn't make any difference who painted it," suggested another. "That kind seem to have died out. You read about them in books, but I've never met one." "Wonderful flesh," remarked a third with meaning in his voice. "If it isn't by Sully it's by somebody who believed in him." No one suspected Gregg's brush. His style had changed with the years--so had his color: that palette had been set with the yellow, red, and blue of sunshine, blossom and sky, and the paints had been mixed with laughter. Nor did he tell them he himself had painted it. This part of his life was guarded with the same care with which he would have guarded his mother's secrets. Had he owned a shrine he would have placed the picture over its altar that he might kneel before it. "These blue-eyed blondes," continued the first speaker meditatively with his eyes on the portrait, "send a lot of men to the devil." Gregg looked up, but made no reply. Both the tone of the man and his words jarred on him. "You can forget a brunette," he went on, "no matter how bewitching she may be, but one of these peaches-and-cream girls--the blue-eyed, red-lipped, white-skinned combination--takes hold of a fellow. This man knew all about it--" and he waved his hand at the portrait. "Is that all you see in it?" rejoined Gregg coldly. "Is there nothing under the paint that appeals to you? Something of the soul of the woman?" "Yes, and that's just what counts in these blondes; that 'soul' you talk about. That's what makes 'em dangerous. That's what captured Hartman, I guess. Mrs. Bowdoin's got just that girl's coloring--not so pretty," and he glanced at the canvas, "but along her lines. Old man Bowdoin says he's ruined his home." "Yes, and it's pretty rough I tell you on the old man," remarked a third. "I saw him yesterday. The poor fellow is all broken up. There's going to be a row, and a hot one, I hear. Pistols, divorce; the air's blue; all sorts of things. Old fellow blusters, but he looks ten years older."