Small wonder that his sleep was restless and disturbed, and that in the morning he was wan and hollow-eyed as some pale ghost.
Alva was shocked, but she did not tell him so; she only showed her concern by the tenderest care.
“We must take you down to Newport before the end of the week; New York is stifling now,” she said, with a significant look at her mother.
“Yes, I am very anxious to get away from here,” rejoined Mrs. Beresford, promptly, as she rose from the table, adding: “I suppose your ‘Cupid’ is finished, dear?”
“Yes, and you must all come and pronounce on its merits,” replied Alva, leading the way arm in arm with her brother.
St. George had to profess a polite interest he did not feel as they entered the studio and stood before the favorite picture.
“Where is she—your lovely model? I had forgotten her until this moment!” cried her mother.
“I will send for her,” returned Alva, speaking to a maid who was in the room.
The girl went out, and then Alva turned to her brother, who was gazing with startled eyes at the beautiful canvas.
“That face! that face!” he exclaimed, pointing wildly.