Dora had such respect for the studio that she never entered it except when dressed in some colour that harmonised with the carpets and hangings and the rest of the furniture. To speak truly, this was not a difficult matter. Tall, dark, superb in figure and in face, her lips perhaps a trifle haughty in repose, but instantly softened by the lightness of her frank, gay smiles, which disclosed her little even white teeth; with dark hazel eyes through which you seemed to look into her soul as through two open doors; with a smooth, fresh, and clear complexion--almost all colours became her. Philip admired his wife in every separate colour of the rainbow, but he had his preferences as a painter. He loved best for her certain crimsons and deep tones of orange and of Gobelin blue; and, as one must never run counter to the fads of an artist, it was generally in one of these tints that Dora dressed, when she wanted Philip to surpass himself at his painting. At the time when this story begins, which is but one of yesterday, Philip was thirty-six and Dora twenty-seven. They had been six years married, and possessed a lovely little girl of five, so full of dainty grace and childish fascination, that when Philip was showing a new picture to a friend, and watching out of the corner of his eye to see if his work was being admired, as often as not the friend would say, "Ah, yes! that is a fine creation, a beautiful picture; but there," indicating the lovely child, "is your _chef-d'oeuvre_--nothing can match her." And as in Philip's nature the parent outweighed the painter, he would proudly smile and reply, "You are right." Philip and Dora had begun their married life in the most modest fashion, but fortune had smiled on them. Each year the painter had become better known and valued, and his pictures more sought after. To-day he was not only well known, but almost celebrated. Every succeeding year had deepened the sincere and strong love of these two lovers and friends, who led a calm, sweet existence, and trod, side by side, a flowered path, under a cloudless sky, with hope, glad labour, honour, and security as companions on the road. I think I have said enough to convince the reader, that if there existed a happy little corner of the world, it was No. 50 Elm Avenue, St. John's Wood. III THE PORTRAIT On the 10th of May 1897, that is to say on the sixth anniversary of Philip's marriage with Dora, he had promised to present her with a portrait of herself. The picture was all but finished. Only a painter would have noticed that it wanted a few more touches to complete it. Hobbs, a faithful servant, who had been Dora's nurse in her old home, and had followed her to St. John's Wood when she had married, was dusting the studio and gazing with admiring eyes at the portrait of Dora, which seemed to smile at her from her master's easel.