"I confess to you, mademoiselle, I have my moments of despondency."
"With your fine talent! Think better of yourself. I hope, at least, that I have not been so unlucky as to surprise you in one of those inopportune moments."
"Ah, mademoiselle," said the painter, "if it were so, one of your smiles would dispel the cloud in a moment."
"Really!" replied the actress, gayly. "Are you quite sure there is no flattery in the remark? I am aware that flattery is an essential part of an artist's profession."
"Not of a true artist's," replied Ernest. "The aim and end of all art is truth; and he who forgets it is untrue to his high mission."
"True," said the lady. "Well, then, faites votre possible—as Napoleon said to his friend David—for I am anxious that this portrait shall be a chef-d'œuvre. I design it for a present."
"With such a subject before me," replied the painter "I could not labor more conscientiously, if the picture were designed for myself."
The sitting passed away rapidly, for the artist; and he was surprised when the lady, after consulting her watch, rose hastily, and exclaimed, "That odious rehearsal! I must leave you—but you ought to be satisfied, for I have given you two hours of my valuable time. Adieu, then, until to-morrow."
With a smile that seemed natural to her, the beautiful girl vanished, taking with her half the sunshine of the room.
The painter continued his labor of love. Indeed, so absorbed was he in his employment, that he did not notice the entrance of a visitor, until he felt a light tap on his shoulder, accompanied by the words,—