They met constantly. As yet he had never offended in words. They were friends. She was interested in his "Deserted"—she visited it in company with some acquaintances at the studio. She had praised it highly. If she recalled the resemblance to herself, in that day past and gone, no word nor look betrayed it.
"It will be a success, I am sure," she had said; "it is so true to life, that it is almost painful to look at it."
Then he had spoken—in one quick, passionate whisper.
"Norine—forgive me!"
The dark eyes looked at him, not proudly, nor coldly, nor angrily now—then fell.
His whole face flushed with rapture.
"I have something to say to you. You are never at home when I call. Norine, I implore you! let me see you alone—once."
Over her face there came a sudden change—her lips set, her eyes gleamed. What it meant he could not tell. He interpreted it to suit his hopes.
"I will see you," she said, slowly. "When will you come?"
"A thousand thanks. This evening if I may."