III.
Lucy hastened after Mrs. Martin, who was still visible in the distance. As the deeply tried woman closed the door of her modest dwelling, a light step made her turn and open it again. She gazed with surprise into the face of the elegantly-gowned girl with the gold-rimmed glasses.
"Does Mr. Martin live here?" the girl inquired in a doubtful voice.
"Yes. Will you be so good as to walk in?" answered the astonished woman. And then with a glance into the room—"Eugene, a lady!" she called to her son.
An inner door opened and Eugene Martin appeared. They stood speechless, gazing in confusion at each other, while white and red chased each other over both of their faces. It was perfectly obvious that they were not strangers to each other; indeed, they had often painted side by side at the Art School. It was the same shy, gentle youth with the dark speaking eyes who had occupied more of her thoughts than would have been considered advisable for an engaged girl. Nevertheless she struggled to conceal her excitement, and to appear calmly in the character of the purpose which had brought her. But how could she offer alms to this family? No, it would no longer be possible; her sensibilities revolted at this thought, and for the moment she wished even to conceal her name from them.
"I wished to have a picture of my—" she was about to say, "of my fiance," without really thinking of him in the least, but a flame of red overspread her face and the word died upon her lips. "—of myself," she substituted. "And I wish it done in oils," she went on in a firmer tone.
Eugene conducted the visitor to the scrupulously clean, though modest, little parlor. In order to reach it they were obliged to pass through the room where his father lay ill, the wild fancies of fever playing antics in his brain. Lucy threw a glance of deep sympathy at the sufferer, visibly moved at the sight of his hollow, ashen face.
The great interest she displayed and the anxious inquiries she made about his father's illness, filled Eugene's heart with gratitude. He could have knelt before this being from another sphere, to whom he had scarcely dared to raise his eyes, and thank her in that humble way of his for the warm sympathy she bestowed on his sick father.
"I have seen some of your paintings, and—I am quite sure that my portrait will be a success—" began Lucy, stammering again, as she looked at the sketches displayed about the room.