Some note in her voice and the closeness of connection between her words and the thought in his own mind that he certainly must be able to do what Irons asked, arrested Fenton's attention. "Yes," he returned, his air of sincerely meaning what he said being by no means wholly unreal; "that is because I am unworthy of them." Miss Wainwright smiled. The self-detraction seemed delicate, and the unexpectedness of the reply amused her. "That is perhaps a modest thing to say, Mr. Fenton," she responded, "but the truth must be--if you'll pardon my saying anything so personal--that you are very sympathetic." The artist moved backward a step from his easel, regarding his work with that half-shutting of the eyes and turning of the head which seems to be an essential of professional inspection. "Even so," persisted he, "a sympathetic person is one whose emotions are fickle enough to give place to whatever others any sudden accident brings up; and if one's feelings are so transient, how can he be worthy of confidence?" "I can't argue with you," Damaris replied, smiling and shaking her head, "but all the same I don't agree with what you say." "Oh, I hoped you wouldn't when I said it," Fenton threw back lightly. He went on with his work, outwardly tranquil, as if he had no thought beyond the perfect shading of the cheek he was painting; but his mind was in a tumult. He thought how easy it is to deceive; how constantly, indeed, we do deceive whether we will or no; how foolish it is to rule our lives by standards which rest so largely on mere seeming; how--Bah! Why should he pretend to himself? He was not really concerned with generalities or great moral principles. He was trying to decide whether he should worm a secret out of Hubbard to throw as a sop to that vile cursed cad, Irons, to keep his foul mouth shut about Ninitta. Heavens! What a tangle he had got into simply because he wanted a decent model for his picture! The abominable prudery and hypocrisy of the time lay behind the whole matter. But this would never do. He must work now; not think of these exciting things. It was hardly a brief moment before to his last words he added aloud,-- "Did what you said mean that I was to be favored with a confidence?" A painful, deep problem was weighing upon her heart, wearing away her reason and her life alike. She had almost been ready to ask advice of the artist, although she by no means knew him well enough to render so intimate a conversation other than strange. "Not necessarily," was her reply to Fenton's question. She found it after all impossible to utter anything definite upon the subject which lay so near her heart. She even felt a dim wonder whether she had really ever seriously contemplated speaking of it, even never so remotely. "I was thinking," she continued, "of the point the conversation had reached this morning when I left my friend at the door downstairs."