"That is enough," Maurice protested hastily. Tragedy oppressed him to the verge of annoyance. "But tell me--who was the knight-errant, that I may at least shake hands with him." The blood tingled in Quita's cheeks, and she went quickly forward into the room. "I doubt if you will want to do that when you know his name," she said. "It was--Captain Lenox." "_Nom de Dieu_! That fellow!" Michael flung out his hands with a dramatic gesture of despair. "What is he doing here, _par exemple_, instead of poking about among his glaciers? _Now_ I suppose he will not rest till he has taken you from me again." The frank selfishness of the man's first thought was so characteristic that Quita smiled. But her smile had an edge to it. "Set your mind at rest on that point," she said. "He is no more anxious to claim--his property, than I am to be claimed." "Curse him! Did he dare to tell you so?" Quita lifted her head; a spark of anger flashed in her eyes. "You seem to forget that he is a gentleman, and--my husband." Then, recovering herself, she added more gently, "There are ways and ways of telling things, _mon cher_, and since I have relieved your anxiety, we need not mention him again. The subject is distasteful to me. Now, I want to see how you have got on with the masterpiece!" She went to the easel; and Maurice, following, stood at her elbow anticipating the sweet savour of praise. For the picture was a notable bit of work, daringly simple in colouring and design, yet arresting, convincing, alive. It represented a young girl, with the promise of womanhood on her gravely sweet lips, and in the depths of her eyes, half-sitting upon the crossed rails of the verandah. An ivory-white dress of Indian silk fell in shimmering folds to her feet. A dawn of clear amber made a tender background to the dull gold of her hair. Trailing sprays of the rose that ran riot over the house drooped towards her; and a pine branch, striking in abruptly, made an effective splash of shadow in an atmosphere palpitating with the promise of fuller light. The only intense bit of colour in the picture was the violet blue of Elsie Mayhew's eyes--eyes that looked into you and through you to some dream-world unsullied by the disconcerting realities of life, which seemed only awaiting the given moment to rush in and dispel the dream. For, as the sky gave promise of fuller light, so did the girl's spirit seem hovering on the verge of fuller knowledge. Such at least was Quita's thought, as she stood silently appraising her brother's work; and it brought a contraction to her throat, a stinging sensation to her eyeballs. "I congratulate you, Michel," said she softly. "You have never done anything to equal that. It is more than a portrait. It is an interpretation, or will be, when it is complete. Her hopeless little 'Button Quail' of a mother won't understand it in the least, but Colonel Mayhew will. I wonder if you know yourself how much you have put into it?"