One day, however, a lady whose portrait he had just finished begged me to go with her to see it. To refuse was impossible, and I went with the less reluctance that I knew I was not the only friend she had invited. The others were all grouped around the easel when I entered, and after contributing my share to the chorus of approval I turned away and began to stroll about the studio. Claydon was something of a collector and his things were generally worth looking at. The studio was a long tapestried room with a curtained archway at one end. The curtains were looped back, showing a smaller apartment, with books and flowers and a few fine bits of bronze and porcelain. The tea-table standing in this inner room proclaimed that it was open to inspection, and I wandered in. A _bleu poudré_ vase first attracted me; then I turned to examine a slender bronze Ganymede, and in so doing found myself face to face with Mrs. Grancy’s portrait. I stared up at her blankly and she smiled back at me in all the recovered radiance of youth. The artist had effaced every trace of his later touches and the original picture had reappeared. It throned alone on the panelled wall, asserting a brilliant supremacy over its carefully-chosen surroundings. I felt in an instant that the whole room was tributary to it: that Claydon had heaped his treasures at the feet of the woman he loved. Yes--it was the woman he had loved and not the picture; and my instinctive resentment was explained. Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder. “Ah, how could you?” I cried, turning on him. “How could I?” he retorted. “How could I _not_? Doesn’t she belong to me now?” I moved away impatiently. “Wait a moment,” he said with a detaining gesture. “The others have gone and I want to say a word to you.--Oh, I know what you’ve thought of me--I can guess! You think I killed Grancy, I suppose?” I was startled by his sudden vehemence. “I think you tried to do a cruel thing,” I said. “Ah--what a little way you others see into life!” he murmured. “Sit down a moment--here, where we can look at her--and I’ll tell you.” He threw himself on the ottoman beside me and sat gazing up at the picture, with his hands clasped about his knee.