"Do you really think that the work merits such prominence as you say will be given it?" he asked doubtfully.
She laughed knowingly, "Just wait until Jim Rutlidge's 'write-up' appears, and all the others follow his lead, and you'll see! The picture is clever enough--you know it as well as I. It is beautiful. It has everything that we women want in a portrait. I really don't know much about what you painters call art; but I know that when Jim and our friends get through with it, your picture will have every mark of a great masterpiece, and that you will be on the topmost wave of success."
"And then what?" he asked.
Again, she interpreted his words in the light of her own thoughts, and with little attempt to veil the fire that burned in her eyes, answered, "And then--I hope that you will not forget me."
For a moment he returned her look; then a feeling of disgust and shame for her swept over him, and he again turned away, to stand gazing moodily out of the window that looked into the rose garden.
"You seem to be disturbed and worried," she said, in a tone that implied a complete understanding of his mood, and a tacit acceptance of the things that he would say if it were not for the world.
He laughed shortly--"I fear you will think me ungrateful for your kindness. Believe me, I am not."
"I know you are not," she returned. "But don't think that you had better confess, just the same?"
He answered wonderingly, "Confess?"
"Yes." She shook her finger at him, in playful severity. "Oh, I know what you have been up to all summer--running wild with your mountain girl! Really, you ought to be more discreet."