"Heavens! Julian, where did you get that angel and that dev--I beg pardon, that extraordinary pair of beauties? Oh, I see!--why, of course! a new idea for the Salon. A modern Guinevere and Elaine; Siren and Saint; Sense and Innocence. I congratulate you, old boy; they are wonderful"-- "Please be quiet for a moment, Harry; they are not for the Salon. They are two sitters of mine. The one beneath has been here twice--the first time about a week ago; the second time day before yesterday. The other came for the first time to-day." "And they are real, live women, then?" "Yes. I was in hopes you might recognize one or both of them." The other shook his head, and gazed from one to the other in silence. "Do you see any--any resemblance between them?" asked the artist, after a pause. "Resemblance! Good Lord, no! Why? Are they related in any way?" "Not that I am aware of; in fact, I am quite sure they are not. She told me she had no relatives." "Um--and which do you refer to as she?" "Oh, the upper one, of course." "Well, I don't see any 'of course' about it. She was here to-day for the first time. I don't see why she should begin by exchanging family confidences. All things considered, I should have thought it more than likely you referred to the other. However, I suppose you are familiar with her family history, too." "Don't be sarcastic, Harry. I know nothing of either of them; at least not in that way. The one who came first gave her name as Evelin March. She came in suddenly, one morning last week, and asked for a sitting. She had on a light wrap, which she laid off and stood before me as you see her. During the sitting she was inclined to be lively and talkative. Her voice is just a trifle harsh, but she is a remarkably brilliant talker and a very fascinating woman. I had not met the other, then, and foolishly allowed myself to say some rather silly things to her. When she came again I did more. You know what a rash fool I am, Harry. Well, I made love to her, off-hand. She stirred me up terribly for some reason. Of course, there was nothing of real love in what I felt for her; it was a brief madness of the head. You know about what I would say under the circumstances." "Oh, perfectly. You swore that her eyes were as are lights in a midnight desert; that her tints would rival the roseate pearl of a June sunset; that her smiles would be your only diet henceforth and forever; that her frown would be as terrible as the day of judgment. And now what has the other one to do with it?" "Lawton, you will think I am crazy, and I am, perhaps--but I love her; and more than that, I believe she loves me. No word of it has passed between us, but--we understand." "Oh, we do, eh? We--we understand," imitated Lawton. "Well, this is exceedingly interesting, I must say, although quite the thing to be expected from one of your temperament. How very fortunate you are in the choice of subjects, too." "What do you mean, Harry?"