Grant Herman sat in his studio in the gathering twilight thinking gloomily. However little Mrs. Greyson suspected the tumult which would be aroused in Ninitta's breast by the misadventure of the morning, the sculptor was too well aware of the Italian's passionate nature not to dread the consequences of the jealousy she was sure to feel. He knew, moreover, that Ninitta's rage would vent itself not upon him but upon Helen, and he wondered how best to avert the danger that threatened. He debated with himself, too, how much he owed to the girl who gave her life up so unreservedly to him. His old love--"call it rather mere boyish passion," he-thought scornfully--was long since dead beyond hope; yet the devotion which it had awakened in Ninitta burned on as steadily as ever. Had he now a right to repulse the love he had himself called into being; to throw aside the fondness he had himself fostered and which he had once prized above measure. "No," he thought, "a thousand times no. A man must be a villain who would not marry a girl under such circumstances. I am hers; the fact that I have changed is my misfortune, not her fault. If I have any manliness about me, I won't let things go on in this way any longer. I'll marry Ninitta. It is the smallest reparation I can make for the long years of pain I have caused her. There is no other course for me. "But I do not love her, and a woman, they say, always instinctively feels it when a man's heart is not hers. Nonsense! That is only a cowardly excuse. At least Ninitta would never be troubled. She has not known so much love that she can draw very sharp comparisons. No; she will be satisfied; and I--well, if a man is such a devilish fool as I have been, it remains for him to pay the penalty. Oh, if youth only knew!" He sighed deeply and began to walk up and down the studio, in which the dusk was gathering thickly. A last faint gleam from a window high in the riverward wall fell upon one of the mutilated goddesses in the gallery. Herman looked up, contemplating the phantom-like head gloomily. Something in its pose, or perhaps more truly something in his own mind, suggested a faint likeness to Helen, as if it were her ghost looking down from some far height upon the conflict of his soul. "Ah!" he cried hotly to himself. "And she? How can I give up the hope of winning her? What was a boy's foolish fancy to the passion of a man--and for such a woman! She is half goddess. No, no; I cannot do it. I cannot marry this Italian peasant, this model that has who knows what history! I will not; I owe something to myself, to my art. What is the simple happiness of Ninitta to my art? I should be a fool to ignore how much more to the world my own well-being is worth than is hers; and what could I not do with the inspiration of the other! Oh, my God!"