“Then my dear must not agonize me with these constant suspicions. They are unworthy of you.”
“Then you do not love Ouida?”
“I love the glorious art of which she is the mistress. I appreciate her because I grasp much from her cunning and deft craftsmanship. But you (clasping her to his breast) are the one woman whom Nature has sent for mating. Enough of this now. You do, you must, trust me.”
She let her head sink gently on his breast. The struggle was over, and the tear-dimmed eyes that looked into his had no doubt in them, for they were lighted up by a faith eternal.
Arm in arm they went into Milton’s work-room, where for some time he delighted her with an exhibition of his work, the progress he was making, and he poured into her willing and sympathetic ear, the story of his future dreams and aspirations, so that she saw more clearly than ever, that the only mistress beside herself which Milton had, was Art.
CHAPTER XI. A PREACHER’S PASSION.
The departure of the editor, politician and broker left Ouida in a very reflective mood. Strange to say, her mind wandered to Paul, the model, as it had often done of late. “I’ll soon call my Herculean model forth. Paul, the perfect brute! Yet, often when he thinks I am not observing, there comes into his eyes a look that makes me tremble, though I know not why. Can it be that I, who have a dozen mighty men, as this world goes, crawling at my feet, am falling captive to a coarse-grained beast, that sleeps and feeds from day to day throughout the year, without a thought or hope beyond the common cattle of the field?”
At this moment a card was handed Ouida, the reading of which filled her eyes with an almost devilish gleam of satisfaction.
“Show the gentleman up,” was her swift command.