At length hope seemed to depart altogether from the young man's breast. He threw down his brushes, gave up all pretence of work and drifted off into a brown study. His eyes, fixed upon those of the portrait, had a troubled look in them;—so troubled, that it was clearly out of all proportion to the professional disappointment of a painter kept waiting for a fair subject.
So absorbed did he become in his gloomy meditations, that, when at last a carriage stopped before the house, the artist did not hear it. But when, presently, a gentle tap sounded upon the door of the studio, he sprang to his feet, as if he had received an electric shock.
Perhaps he had; for it was followed by a rapid current of delicious thrills tingling through every nerve and effecting in his whole being a sudden and marvelous transformation. At once the furrowed brow was smooth; the drooping lips were wreathed in smiles; the troubled look gave way to one of glad welcome.
For she had come at last. There she stood, with laughing brown eyes and glowing cheeks, when Sprague threw open the door. Alas, as usual, she was accompanied by her maid. Never mind; was it not enough to have her there at all, to bask in the sunshine of her smile, to look into the dangerous depths of those soul-stirring eyes, to listen to the rippling of her silvery voice?
"I fear I am a little late, Mr. Sprague; I am so sorry to have kept you waiting. But you see this is how it was——"
What mattered it to him now how it was? Was she not there? An eternity of suspense and misery would have been wiped out by that single entrancing fact. Her words beat upon his ear like rapturous melody; he drank them in, hardly conscious of their meaning.
Agnes Murdock, followed by her maid, proceeded at once to the dressing-room set apart for the use of the artist's models. When she returned, dressed for the sitting, she assumed under Sprague's directions the pose of the portrait, while the artist critically arranged her draperies and adjusted the shades and screens.
The maid had remained in the dressing-room.
"And so these are positively the last final touches, are they, Mr. Sprague?" asked the young girl mischievously, after a few minutes. "You artists seem to be quite as uncertain about your farewell appearances as any famous actress or singer."
The artist looked up quickly as the girl spoke. An expression of pain crossed his features.