Fox, startled out of a revery which was largely pervaded by the personality of another woman, could not but observe this radiant picture; there was a vitality, a power of expression in every feature of her face and every movement of her tall, lithe figure which at once specialized her. She seemed to belong to a different race of beings from those who were hurrying past her through the fog, whose figures lost themselves at once to vision and memory, dissolving into the masses of the commonplace, as completely as the individual sands at the seashore are lost in the larger sweep of the dunes. She turned her head, saw Allestree and smiled. “How are you?” she said, with the easy manner of an old intimacy; “I hardly dare look at you--I know I broke the appointment and several of the studio commandments!” Allestree had hurried forward at once, apparently forgetting his companion, and was helping her into her carriage. “You did,” he said, “and shamelessly; but you must come and make amends.” She laughed, her hand on the carriage door, and her eyes, involuntarily passing him to Fox, were as quickly averted. “I will, on Saturday at twelve--will that do, Bobby? Don’t be too exacting. I’ve a dozen engagements, you know,” she added lightly, in a tone of careless propitiation. Fox did not catch his cousin’s reply, it was too low spoken, and in a moment the horses started and the carriage passed him on its way to F Street. Secretly a little piqued at Allestree’s failure to present him, and yet amused at his discovery of his cousin playing knight-errant to a beauty, Fox walked on a few moments in silence, aware that the other was not a little confused. But at last: “Who is she, Bob, wood-nymph, dryad, or Psyche herself?” Allestree’s face sobered sharply. “It was Miss Temple,” he said, a trifle stiffly. Fox gave a moment to reflection. “Ah,” he observed, “I recollect, Judge Temple has a daughter. I had never seen her; I’ve heard her spoken of, though, a hundred times; her name is--?” “Rose Temple.” William Fox glanced at his companion obliquely and smiled, but he made no attempt at pleasantry. After a little, however, as they approached the residential quarter and neared his club, where he intended to dine, he returned to the subject. “You are painting Miss Temple’s portrait?” “Yes, attempting it,” assented Allestree, with marked reluctance; he felt it to be almost a sacrilege to speak of a piece of work which had become, in more ways than one, a labor of love.