His cheeks were hot and flushed, and his hands were like ice, and trembling. And the result was—that he failed—failed miserably and completely. When, an hour later, Evelin March entered the studio and, throwing off her wrap, stood before him, imperious, soulless and beautiful—a delicate odor, as of pansies, from her white flesh, stealing into his brain—his pledges of faith and his fair resolves melted away like walls of mist, and the face of Eva Delorme shrank back into the silent recesses of his heart, and only a small voice within him whispered, "Coward—traitor—"
She glanced at him sharply.
"Something troubles you, mon ami. You are not overjoyed at my coming. I have been fancying to myself how impatiently you were waiting."
His hands were no longer trembling. He was calm enough, now, but it was the calmness of defeat—of having yielded to the inevitable.
"I have indeed been waiting impatiently," he said, smiling. "You see that I have been even consoling myself with your picture," and he pointed to the easel.
"From an artistic point of view, only, I fancy."
"That is unkind. I have been holding a conversation with it that I fear I should hesitate to repeat—with the original."
"How interesting! A rehearsal, perhaps."
"Perhaps; and I was testing the powers of my work as compared to those of the original."
"And with the result"—