"How very like her; what did you tell her?" "Oh, I said I supposed the object of life is to transform the crude animal and vegetable substances of our food into passions and petty sentiments." Edith laughed absently, her thoughts elsewhere. "And she looked dreadfully puzzled," Fenton continued, "as to whether she ought to be shocked or not. But bless me, how late it is! Good-night, my dear." He stretched up his arms in a yawn. Edith turned quickly toward him. "Arthur," she said abruptly, but with the kindness of her softened mood, "are you painting Ninitta?" He gave her a startled glance and sat down again in his chair. There ran through his mind a sudden pang of fear, but he said to himself instantly that Edith was not one to suspect evil, and she could not possibly know the truth. "Painting Ninitta?" he returned. "Why do you ask that?" "Because Fred Rangely told Helen at dinner to-night that you were." "Where did he get his information?" asked Fenton, with a feeling of tightness in his throat as he remembered how Rangely had knocked at his door that morning. "He said," was Edith's answer, "that a carpenter told him Mrs. Herman was in the studio to-day; and I remembered seeing her wrap there last week." Fenton felt the insecurity of a man about whom all things totter in the shock of an earthquake, but he refused to yield to fear. He wondered how much was to be inferred from the fact that an unknown mechanic was aware of Mrs. Herman's visits. He had an overwhelming sense of being trapped, and he inwardly gnashed his teeth with rage against Ninitta and against fate. But he felt the supreme importance of self-control, and he was outwardly collected as he asked,-- "What did Helen say to him?" "She said," answered Edith, with an exquisite note of sadness in her voice, "that you must be making a portrait for a surprise to her husband." The artist's heart gave a bound and he caught eagerly at this suggestion, which afforded him a means of escape. "Helen is too shrewd by half," he said, with a smile. "It is for Grant's birthday and nobody was to know. As a matter of fact," he added, his invention quickly leaping to the refinements of details in his falsehood, "I fancy Ninitta really wants it for the _bambino_, as she calls him." He smiled with relief as he went on, and rose again to his feet. "Deception," he observed, with his natural lightness of manner, "is the bane of married life, but marital felicity is impossible without discreet reserves. It wasn't my secret, you see, so I didn't feel at liberty to tell you." "You were perfectly right," she answered. "The truth is," she continued, hesitatingly, "I was afraid you had persuaded Ninitta to sit for the _Fatima_, you know you said once that she was the only model in Boston who was what you wanted."