On the third morning, however, a note arrived which dispelled the dream that enveloped her, and brought her to herself again. The note had been placed among many others upon the breakfast table. She looked twice or thrice at the handwriting, then opened the envelope, and read as follows—
My dear Ophelia,—For the last few days I have been looking every hour, nay, every minute, for a visit from you. Am I to be again honoured by a visit from you in my studio, or may I take the liberty of waiting upon you? I have been putting one or two finishing touches to my work, but without the presence of the original I cannot bring it to completion.
Accept my friendly homage, which must be to you like a drop of water to the ocean.
Blanco Serena.
Having perused the note, Madeline laid it down again upon the table and looked round the room. How poverty-stricken it looked; how opposed to everything in the house of the successful painter who wrote that letter! She turned to White, who sat near her with his head buried in the folds of the ‘Times.’
‘Mr. Serena thinks that success has turned my head,’ she said quietly. ‘I must undeceive him by giving him my last sitting for “Ophelia” to-day.’
Accordingly, as soon as the breakfast was over, White retired to his studio, and Madeline went on her way.
On arriving at the house of Mr. Blanco Serena, she was made to feel her new greatness more than ever she had done before. The servant in livery looked at her with unusual respect, as he led her solemnly through long corridors to the studio, and ushered her into the presence of the great man himself.
Mr. Blanco Serena sat among his pictures. He wore an Eastern dressing-gown, and smoked a fantastically twisted meerschaum pipe. His eyes were fixed with rapt attention on the walls where his own handiwork was displayed; but when Madeline came in, he withdrew his gaze, collected his thoughts, and gave her a kindly welcome. To all his congratulations Madeline listened quietly, then she took her place before the painter, and, as he painted, her thoughts wandered to the past.
‘Ah, those eyes, those eyes,’ thought Serena to himself as he painted rapidly. ‘I cannot put them on canvas. The critics will rave about my “Ophelia,” but their praise will never satisfy me. If I could only paint the expression of that face I should think myself the genius they call me, not the poor impostor I know myself to be.’