"By the way," she continued, after a moment, during which her eyes had roved over the place with a lingering look, as if to impress it indelibly upon her mind, "what have you behind those draperies? I thought it a window as I passed them; now I see it is not."
John glanced in the direction she indicated, then back at her, hesitated, and for a moment seemed at a loss to know how to answer her. At length he said:
"That is a picture upon which I have been working, at intervals, for seven or eight years. Many times I have thought it finished, but I am not yet through touching it up—not quite satisfied with it."
"It must be something intensely absorbing," said Helen. "What is the subject, if you will not deem it an impertinent question?"
"I have called it 'My Inspiration,' because it and what it portrays have long been that to me."
"How interesting! You make me very curious. May I see it, John?"
Again he hesitated, flushing slightly, and Helen, thinking perhaps she had been presuming, was on the point of begging his pardon for her thoughtlessness, when he smiled faintly, and replied:
"Yes; while I am showing Dorothy and Alexander a little gem in marble in the other room, go and look at it—no one as yet, save myself, has ever seen it."
He turned to the younger couple, who were approaching, and, saying he had something to show them, led them into the adjoining room; while Helen, experiencing something very like a sense of guilt for having begged such a favor—a favor that as yet had never been granted another, not even Dorothy, it appeared—stole to the curtained alcove, loosened the knotted cords, parted the heavy draperies, and looked up. A low exclamation of astonishment escaped her.
The picture was a full-length portrait of herself, wearing an evening dress of silver-gray velvet, garnished with costly lace and touches of rose pink, and standing just as she had stood that night, three years ago, when John took leave of her in her apartment at the Grenoble. The figure and costume were perfect in every detail. John had a remarkable memory, and he had caught not only the unconscious grace of her pose, but also the sheen of the velvet, and almost the exact pattern of the lace she had worn. And the face! It almost made her weep as she studied it, for she could not fail to read the tender, worshipful stroke of his brush in its every line and feature.