The lower part of the canvas was in shadow, but the upper part was resplendent with light; and towers seemed to rise and arches hang above the abyss, while visions appeared between the clouds. The setting sun lighted up with its dying fires the moving mists, whereon rainbow tints were playing. At the horizon the sea mingled with the clouds. Morgana rose from the waves which broke along the beach. Strange sea-flowers clung to her hair and covered her shoulders. In the background, cliffs fell straight down to the sea; and all along the shore an ecstatic people acclaimed the return of their lady, the Duchess Morgana.
Phil had put all his talent into this picture. Months of implacable labor were in it. The duke, who had not yet seen the finished canvas, seemed delighted. Phil was paid for his labors.
The Duke of Morgania had a love for art and artists. He chatted in a friendly way with Phil of the numerous studies which such a picture demands.
“I should have liked to be a painter,” he said, smilingly. “I am infatuated with the bohemian life!”
“It hasn’t been all amusement to me,” replied Phil. “Art is not easy, allez!”
“It’s about the same in everything; nothing is easy,” Helia observed.
She entered into the conversation timidly. Accustomed as she had been from childhood to brave a thousand eyes in the circus ring, Helia felt herself embarrassed in the sumptuous studio where she found Phil, friend of her childhood and youth—Phil, who had been so fond of her then, and who doubtless loved her still. She would know soon,—when they were alone,—if only by the way in which he would take her hand.
“It is the same in everything. You are right, mademoiselle,” the duke answered. “Yours is an art also.”
Helia blushed with pleasure.
“Phil will be proud of me,” she thought.