For a moment he returned her look; then a feeling of disgust and shame for her swept over him, and he again turned away, to stand gazing moodily out of the window that looked into the rose garden. "You seem to be disturbed and worried," she said, in a tone that implied a complete understanding of his mood, and a tacit acceptance of the things that he would say if it were not for the world. He laughed shortly--"I fear you will think me ungrateful for your kindness. Believe me, I am not." "I know you are not," she returned. "But don't think that you had better confess, just the same?" He answered wonderingly, "Confess?" "Yes." She shook her finger at him, in playful severity. "Oh, I know what you have been up to all summer--running wild with your mountain girl! Really, you ought to be more discreet." Aaron King's face burned as he stammered something about not knowing what she meant. She laughed gaily. "There, there, never mind--I forgive you--now that you are safely back in civilization again. I know you artists, and how you must have your periods of ah--relaxation--with rather more liberties than the common herd. Just so you are careful that the world doesn't know _too_ much." At this frank revelation of her mind, the man stood amazed. For the construction she put upon his relation with the girl whose pure and gentle comradeship had led him to greater heights in his art than he had ever before attained, he could have driven this woman from the studio he felt that she profaned. But what could he say? He remembered Conrad Lagrange's counsel when James Rutlidge had seen the girl at their camp. What could he say that would not injure Sibyl Andrés? To cover his embarrassment, he forced a laugh and answered lightly, "Really, I am not good at confessions." "Nor I at playing the part of confessor," she laughed with him. "But, just the same, you might tell me what you think of yourself. Aren't you just a little ashamed?" The artist had moved to a position in front of her portrait; and, as he looked upon the painted lie, his answer came. "Rather let me tell you what I think of _you_, Mrs. Taine. And let me tell you in the language I know best. Let me put my answer to your charges here," he touched her portrait. Almost, his reply was worthy of Conrad Lagrange, himself. "I don't quite understand," she said, a trifle put out by the turn his answer had taken. "I mean," he explained eagerly, "that I want to repaint your portrait. You remember, I wrote, when I returned Mr. Taine's generous check, that I was not altogether satisfied with it. Give me another chance." "You mean for me to come here again, to pose for you?--as I did before?" "Yes," he answered, "just as you did before. I want to make a portrait worthy of you, as this is not. Let me tell you, on the canvas, what I cannot--" he hesitated then said deliberately--"what I _dare_ not put into words."