The light in the woman's eyes changed to anger which she turned away to hide. Without replying, she went to her place and assumed the pose; and, as she had watched him day after day when his eyes were upon the canvas, she watched him now. Since that first day, when she had questioned him about the unseen musician, they had not mentioned the subject, although--as was inevitable under the circumstances--their intimacy had grown. But not once had he turned from his work in that listening attitude, or looked from the window as though half-expecting some one, without her noting it. And, always, her eyes had flashed with resentment, which she had promptly concealed when the painter, again turning to his easel, had looked from his canvas to her face. Scarcely was the artist well started in his work, that afternoon, when the music ceased. Presently, Mrs. Taine broke her watchful silence, with the quite casual remark; "Your musical neighbor is still unknown to you, I suppose?" "Yes,"--he answered smiling, as though more to himself than at her,--"we have never tried to make her acquaintance." The woman caught him up quickly; "To make _her_ acquaintance? Why do you say, '_her_,' if you do not know who it is?" The artist was confused. "Did I say, _her_?" he questioned, his face flushed with embarrassment. "It was a slip of the tongue. Neither Conrad Lagrange nor I know anything about our neighbor." She laughed ironically. "And you _could_ know so easily." "I suppose so; but we have never cared to. We prefer to accept the music as it comes to us--impersonally--for what it is--not for whoever makes it." He spoke coldly, as though the subject was distasteful to him, under the circumstances of the moment. But the woman persisted. "Well, _I_ know who it is. Shall I tell you?" "No. I do not care to know. I am not interested in the musician." "Oh, but you might be, you know," she retorted. "Please take the pose," returned Aaron King professionally. Mrs. Taine, wisely, for the time, dropped the subject; contenting herself with a meaning laugh. The artist silently gave all his attention to the nearly finished portrait. He was not painting, now, with full brush and swift sure strokes,--as had been his way when building up his picture,--but worked with occasional deft touches here and there; drawing back from the canvas often, to study it intently, his eyes glancing swiftly from the picture to the sitter's face and back again to the portrait; then stepping forward quickly, ready brush in hand; to withdraw an instant later for another long and searching study. Presently, with an air of relief, he laid aside his palette and brushes; and turning to Mrs. Taine, with a smile, held out his hand. "Come," he said, "tell me if I have done well or ill." "It is finished?" she cried. "I may see it?" "It is all that I can do"--he answered--"come." He led her to the easel, where they stood side by side before his work.