He waited most impatiently for the answer, and in those days of suspense stood often before her completed portrait as it stood on the easel brightening the room with its arch beauty, while close beside it hung the fancy head he had made of Mae Sweetland, a Cupid emerging from light-tinted clouds such as suited her fairy-like beauty. It was a fine likeness and a lovely piece of work, and Florian took much pride in it, often saying to himself: “Jove! what a little angel! If I had not met Viola first, I should certainly have been a captive to Mae’s bow and spear.” He would not admit even to himself that it was perhaps a feeling of loyalty to Viola that had made him avoid Mae after the portrait was finished, afraid of a sudden indefinable attraction that she had begun to exercise over him, lest his thoughts should stray from her who had the first claim on them. He had not seen Mae for some time, but he knew she was back in the city this winter, because he had met Mrs. Graham accidentally on the street one day, and on asking eagerly after the young girl, had been told that she was staying at a boarding-house near the Capitol, till her aunt should return from abroad. He had asked for her address, and said he would call on her very soon; and Mrs. Graham duly reported it to Mae, who watched eagerly, day by day, until she gave up in despair, for he never came. “He does not care,” she thought to herself, wondering if he was not something of a flirt; for he had certainly seemed to take a flattering interest in her during the painting of the portraits. “I am almost sorry I gave him those sittings now. He is very ungrateful not even to call once. But I shall not fret, though he is very handsome; for I gave my heart unasked once, and I never shall again,” she resolved, valiantly fighting down her heart pangs. She was very lovely and winning, and in the select boarding-house where she was staying with a very distant relative, she found many admirers who gave her little time to bewail the indifference of one cold cavalier; for her invitations were many, and she received enough attentions to turn her golden head, if she had not been quite a self-poised little creature whose one disappointment in love had been sufficient to check any budding vanity. But one evening in January when she was sitting quietly in her room, with an interesting new novel, a card was brought her that sent a sudden, warm, sea-shell glow flushing into her fair cheeks, for it bore the name of Florian Gay. “At last!” she thought, in a flutter of mingled delight and pique, and hastened to make herself as irresistible as she could by the aid of dress before descending to her relative’s private parlor, where she found Florian eagerly awaiting her, and looking marvelously handsome in his dark, cavalier style. “Are you surprised?” he queried, pressing the tiny hand a trifle more warmly than was necessary, so that she blushingly drew it away.