"Oh, but such a cold!" She seated herself on a low chair between two large curtained easels. Then she rose to examine the portrait. "I suppose the touching-up makes a great deal of difference," she remarked. "A great deal," assented Nevins; "but don't you like it?" She hesitated, her head first on one side, then on the other. "Oh yes," she said, "but I should like it to be ideal, you know." "Nonsense! You don't need to be idealized. To idealize means to wipe out character with turpentine and put in inanity with a paint-brush." Then he added: "Sit down just as you are, and turn your head towards the purple curtain on that easel. A little farther--there. I must have that expression." He picked up his brush and worked steadily for twenty minutes. Then he frowned. "You have suffered twelve changes of expression within the last sixty seconds," he said. "What are you thinking of?" "Oh, lots of things." "Keep to one, please." She smiled. "Which shall it be?" His eyes lingered upon her in sudden brightness. "Think of me," he responded. "I do," returned Mariana, amiably; "but when I think of you I think of Mr. Ardly, and when I think of Mr. Ardly I think of The Gotham, and when I think of The Gotham I think of--Mr. Paul." "Confound Mr. Paul!" retorted Nevins, crossly. "Please don't," protested Mariana; and she added, "you know he disapproves of me very much." "The scoundrel!" "But a great many people do that." "The scoundrels!" "Oh no," said Mariana, plaintively; "it is only your kindness of heart that makes you say so." He laid down his brush and looked at her. "My God!--Mariana!" he exclaimed. "Nevins," said a voice in the doorway. He turned abruptly. Mariana, behind the curtained easel, paled suddenly. "I knocked, my dear fellow," the voice went on, "and I thought you answered. So you _are_ alone. I came to look at the portrait." "I am not alone," returned Nevins, awkwardly; "but come in, a--a--Algarcife." Mariana rose from behind the easel and came forward. Her face was white, but she was smiling. "He is painting every one's portrait," she said, "and I am one of everybody." She held out her hand. He took it limply, and it fell from his grasp. "I beg your pardon," he said; "I did not know." "Oh, it doesn't matter," responded Mariana. "Please look at the portrait. I want to--to rest." He turned from her coldly. "Since Mrs. Gore is so kind," he said to Nevins, "I will look at it. It will only detain you a moment." He crossed the room and drew aside the curtain from a large canvas, then he fell back from the light and examined it carefully for a few seconds, suggesting an alteration or two, and making a favorable comment. Mariana followed him with her eyes, her hands clasped before her, her face pallid, and the red of her lips shining like a scarlet thread. "It--it is very like," she said, suddenly.