“No, no,” she said, “I know the sensitiveness of your beautiful art. Only, O, Noel! I cannot rest where we ended just now. Believe me, it was so far from my wish to offend or alarm you. But time goes on, and the pledge this finished picture was to redeem is withheld, until I am at a loss how to explain.” “To whom?” he muttered sullenly, “to that priest? O, I know. What right has he, a grudging Churchman, and you a saint?” “O, indeed, I am but a weak woman!” she said, with a faint smile, “and he an anointed Father. He does right--dear, he does--to be jealous for his daughter. It is only that he would ask you, that I would ask you, what period”-- “Art is not to be forced,” he interrupted her peevishly. “I made the finishing of this picture, as it was begun--as it was begun, mind--the condition of my being received into your Church. Didn’t I, now?” “Yes,” she sighed; “but there are some vows better broken.” “A bad recommendation to what you call the truth,” he sneered. “But, Noel, it _is_ the truth,” she cried. “O, say you are convinced that it is!” “Well, I don’t know,” he answered, “since you bid me to a lie.” “I will take the burden,” she cried, her eyes streaming, “to save the soul I love.” She hardly breathed the final word. For a wonder, the poor creature she entreated found enough in it to move him. “There,” he said, “don’t distress yourself, Sophia. I’ll work hot-handed on the picture to-morrow. There, I promise I will.” “Thank you, Noel,” she whispered, so kindling, so grateful, that de Crespigny shrunk before her. “I--I won’t interrupt you any longer. It was like you, kind and considerate, not to blame me for breaking your rule.” The room remained so still after her going that I thought he too had followed, until, stealing out presently in a panic, I found him seated in a corner, biting his nails. “I had better go now, hadn’t I?” I whispered, half choking. “Yes,” he growled, “to the devil!” X. I BEWITCH A MONSTER On the following morning, going indifferently by the studio, where was a back way into the grounds, I encountered Gogo. “He’s at work on the portrait,” he said, standing moodily against the room door. “He’ll be at it all day. It’s no good your coming.” I tossed my head, vouchsafing no reply, and, singing to myself, passed on and out. The day after, descending the stairs, I observed that the studio door was left ajar. I laughed, taking no other notice, and went my way into the garden. On the third day, seeing de Crespigny walk out with his Sophia, I borrowed the opportunity to slip down and investigate. The truth was, I was devoured with curiosity to learn how madam’s little explosion had stimulated the artistic verve, and to obtain a glimpse of the portrait, even, if necessary, by bending myself to the corruption of my poor infatuated Gogo. But I was to be disappointed, for the room was empty, and the canvas locked into its press.