She did not let her master see it until she had made the last stroke. Theretofore he had always said some word of encouragement the moment he looked at any of her work submitted to him. Now, he stood silent, his eyes searching for flaws, instead of for merits. There was no mistaking the meaning of that criticism; Neva thrilled until she trembled. It was the happiest moment of her life.
"I guess you've hit it, this time," he said at length. "Worse work than that has lived—on its merits."
"I'm afraid I'll never be able to do it again," she sighed. "It seems to me an accident."
"And so it was," replied he. "So is all inspired work. Yes, it's an accident—but that kind of accidents happen again and again to those who keep good and ready for good luck." He turned and, almost forgetting the woman in the artist, put his hand affectionately, admiringly, on her shoulder. "And you—my dear—you have worked well."
"Not so well as I shall hereafter," replied she. "I've been discouraged. This will put heart into me."
He smiled with melancholy. "Yes—you'll work better. But not because you're less discouraged. This picture gives you pleasure now. Six months hence it will be a source of pain every time you think of it. There's a picture I did about twelve years ago that has stretched me on the rack a thousand times. I never think of it without a twinge. Why? Because I feel I've never equaled it since. They say I have—say it's far inferior to my later work. But I know—and it galls."
The bell rang and presently Molly appeared with Raphael's man-of-all-work carrying a large canvas, covered. "Ah—here it is!" cried Boris, and when the two servants were gone, he said to Neva: "Now, shut your eyes, and don't open them till I tell you."
A few seconds, then he cried laughingly, "Behold!" She looked; it was a full-length portrait of herself. She was entering a room, was holding aside a dark purple curtain that was in daring, exquisite contrast with her soft, clinging, silver-white dress, and the whiteness of her slender, long, bare arms. The darkness in which her figure, long and slim and slight, was framed, the flooding light upon it as if from it, the exceeding beauty of her slender face, of her dreaming, dazzled eyes, all combining to suggest a soul, newly awakened from a long, long sleep, and entering life, full equipped for all that life has for a mind that can think and a heart that can love and laugh and weep— It was Neva at her best, Boris at his best.
He looked from the portrait to her, and back again. "Not right," he muttered discontentedly. "not yet. However, I'll touch it up here." Then to her, "I want a few sittings, if you'll take the trouble to get out that dress."
She was gazing at his work with awe; it did not seem to her to be herself. "It is finished, now," said she to him.