He started toward the door; but suddenly facing Sprague again, he held out his hand to the artist, who pressed it cordially.
"Good-bye, old man," he said affectionately; "be as sensible as you can, and don't wantonly play with the fire."
And before Sprague could frame an answer, the reporter was gone.
The artist remained thoughtfully standing until his friend's footsteps had died away in the distance. Then he turned and walked slowly into the studio. Here, in the middle of the room, stood an easel, upon which was the portrait of a beautiful young girl.
Sprague gazed at it long and earnestly. Then he heaved an almost inaudible sigh.
"Sturgis is right," he said to himself, turning away at last, "and——and I am a confounded idiot!"
CHAPTER VII.
AGNES MURDOCK.
In a quarter of the city which is rapidly surrendering to the relentless encroachments of trade, there still stand a few old-fashioned houses, the sole survivors of what was once an aristocratic settlement.