The door opened, and Russell came into the studio. She was not expecting him; his sudden appearance gave her no time to adjust the chilling mask of pride, and all her uncontrolled affection found eloquent language in the joyful face.
"Russell! my own dear Russell!"
He drew his arm around her and kissed her flushed cheek, and each looked at the other, wondering at the changes which years had wrought.
"Electra, you have certainly improved more than anyone I ever knew. You look the impersonation of perfect health; it is needless to ask how you are." And again his lips touched the beaming face pressed against his shoulder. Her arms stole tremblingly around his neck, past indifference was forgotten in the joy of his presence.
"Sit down, and let me look at you. You have grown so tall and commanding that I am half afraid of my own cousin. You are less like Aunt Amy than formerly."
"Allow me to look at your painting first, for it will soon be too dark to examine it. This is the Cassandra of which you wrote me."
He stood before it for some moments in silence, and she watched him with breathless eagerness—for his opinion was of more value to her than that of all the dilettanti and connoisseurs who would soon inspect it. Gradually his dark cold face kindled, and she had her reward.
"It is a masterly creation; a thing of wonderful and imperishable beauty; it is a great success—as such the world will receive it—and hundreds will proclaim your triumph. I am proud of it, and doubly proud of you."
He held out his hand, and, as she put her fingers in his, her head drooped, and hot tears blinded her. Praise from the lips she loved best stirred her womanly heart as the applause of the public could never do.
"Come, sit down, Electra, and tell me something of your life, since the death of your friend, Mr. Clifton."