"I am not alone," returned Nevins, awkwardly; "but come in, a—a—Algarcife."
Mariana rose from behind the easel and came forward. Her face was white, but she was smiling.
"He is painting every one's portrait," she said, "and I am one of everybody." She held out her hand. He took it limply, and it fell from his grasp.
"I beg your pardon," he said; "I did not know."
"Oh, it doesn't matter," responded Mariana. "Please look at the portrait. I want to—to rest."
He turned from her coldly.
"Since Mrs. Gore is so kind," he said to Nevins, "I will look at it. It will only detain you a moment."
He crossed the room and drew aside the curtain from a large canvas, then he fell back from the light and examined it carefully for a few seconds, suggesting an alteration or two, and making a favorable comment.
Mariana followed him with her eyes, her hands clasped before her, her face pallid, and the red of her lips shining like a scarlet thread. "It—it is very like," she said, suddenly.
He bowed quietly, showing a slight surprise, as he might have done at the remark of a stranger. Then he turned to the door.