Mrs. Taine,
wisely, for the time, dropped the subject; contenting herself with a
meaning laugh.
The artist silently gave all his attention to the nearly finished
portrait. He was not painting, now, with full brush and swift sure
strokes,--as had been his way when building up his picture,--but worked
with occasional deft touches here and there; drawing back from the canvas
often, to study it intently, his eyes glancing swiftly from the picture to
the sitter's face and back again to the portrait; then stepping forward
quickly, ready brush in hand; to withdraw an instant later for another
long and searching study. Presently, with an air of relief, he laid aside
his palette and brushes; and turning to Mrs. Taine, with a smile, held out
his hand. "Come," he said, "tell me if I have done well or ill."
"It is finished?" she cried. "I may see it?"
"It is all that I can do"--he answered--"come." He led her to the easel,
where they stood side by side before his work.
The picture, still fresh from the painter's brush, was a portrait of Mrs.
Taine--yet not a portrait. Exquisite in coloring and in its harmony of
tone and line, it betrayed in every careful detail--in every mark of the
brush--the thoughtful, painstaking care--the thorough knowledge and highly
trained skill of an artist who was, at least, master of his own technic.
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