Meanwhile Innocent's portrait on which he had worked for a considerable time was nearly completed. It was one of the best things he had ever done, and he contemplated it with a pleasant thrill of artistic triumph, forgetting the "woman" entirely in satisfied consideration of the "subject." As a portrait he realised that it would be the crown of the next year's Salon, bearing comparison with any work of the greater modern masters. He was however a trifle perplexed, and not altogether pleased at the expression, which, entirely away from his will and intention, had insensibly thrown a shadow of sadness on the face,—it had come there apparently of itself, unbidden. He had been particularly proud of his success in the drawing of the girl's extremely sensitive mouth, for he had, as he thought, caught the fleeting sweetness of the smile which was one of her greatest charms,—but now, despite his pains, that smile seemed to lose itself in the sorrow and pathos of an unspoken reproach, which, though enthralling and appealing to the beholder as the look of the famous "Mona Lisa," had fastened itself as it were on the canvas without the painter's act or consent. He was annoyed at this, yet dared not touch it in any attempt to alter what asserted itself as convincingly finished,—for the picture was a fine work of art and he realised that it would add to his renown.
"I shall not name it as the portrait of a living woman," he said to himself—"I shall call it simply—'Innocent.'"
As he thought this, the subject of the painting herself entered the studio. He turned at the sound of the door opening, and caught a strange new impression of her,—an impression that moved him to a touch of something like fear. Was she going to be tiresome, he wondered?—would she make him a "scene"—or do something odd as women generally did when their feelings escaped control? Her face was very pale—her eyes startlingly bright,—and the graceful white summer frock she wore, with soft old lace falling about it, a costume completed in perfection by a picturesque Leghorn hat bound with black velvet and adorned with a cluster of pale roses, made her a study worthy the brush of many a greater artist than Amadis de Jocelyn. His quick eye noted every detail of her dainty dress and fair looks as he went to meet her and took her in his arms. She clung to him for a moment—and he felt her tremble.
"What's the matter?" he asked, with unconscious sharpness—"Is anything wrong?"
She put him away from her tenderly and looked up smiling—but there was a sparkling dew in her eyes.
"No, my Amadis! Nothing wrong!"
He heaved a quick sigh of relief.
"Thank heaven! You looked at me as if you had a grievance—all women have grievances—but they should keep them to themselves."
She gave the slightest little shrug of her shoulders; then went and sat on the highest step of the familiar dais where she had posed for her picture, and waited a moment. He did not at once come to sit beside her as he had so often done—he stood opposite his easel, looking at her portrait but not at her.
"I have no grievance," she said then, making an effort to steady her voice, which trembled despite herself—"And if I had I should not vex you with it. But—when you can quite spare the time I should like a quiet little talk with you."