As often as the thought of the artist presented itself to her she fought to put it from her. Yes, yes, he came to see her often, very often. Perhaps he loved her yet. Well, suppose he did? He had always loved her. It was not wrong to have him love her, to have him with her. Without his company, great heavens, her life would be lonely beyond words and beyond endurance. Besides, was it to be thought, for an instant, that she, she, Laura Jadwin, in her pitch of pride, with all her beauty, with her quick, keen mind, was to pine, to droop to fade in oblivion and neglect? Was she to blame? Let those who neglected her look to it. Her youth was all with her yet, and all her power to attract, to compel admiration. When Corthell came to see her on the Wednesday evening in question, Laura said to him, after a few moments, conversation in the drawing-room: "Oh, you remember the picture you taught me to appreciate--the picture of the little pool in the art gallery, the one you called 'Despair'? I have hung it in my own particular room upstairs--my sitting-room--so as to have it where I can see it always. I love it now. But," she added, "I am not sure about the light. I think it could be hung to better advantage." She hesitated a moment, then, with a sudden, impulsive movement, she turned to him. "Won't you come up with me, and tell me where to hang it?" They took the little elevator to the floor above, and Laura led the artist to the room in question--her "sitting-room," a wide, airy place, the polished floor covered with deep skins, the walls wainscotted half way to the ceiling, in dull woods. Shelves of books were everywhere, together with potted plants and tall brass lamps. A long "Madeira" chair stood at the window which overlooked the park and lake, and near to it a great round table of San Domingo mahogany, with tea things and almost diaphanous china. "What a beautiful room," murmured Corthell, as she touched the button in the wall that opened the current, "and how much you have impressed your individuality upon it. I should have known that you lived here. If you were thousands of miles away and I had entered here, I should have known it was yours--and loved it for such." "Here is the picture," she said, indicating where it hung. "Doesn't it seem to you that the light is bad?" But he explained to her that it was not so, and that she had but to incline the canvas a little more from the wall to get a good effect. "Of course, of course," she assented, as he held the picture in place. "Of course. I shall have it hung over again to-morrow." For some moments they remained standing in the centre of the room, looking at the picture and talking of it. And then, without remembering just how it had happened, Laura found herself leaning back in the Madeira chair, Corthell seated near at hand by the round table.