"I hoped it would please you."
"And you"--she asked, with eager eyes--"are you satisfied with it? Does it
seem good to you?"
"Oh, as for that," he answered, "I suppose one is never satisfied. I know
the work is good--in a way. But it is very far from what it should be, I
fear. I feel that, after all, I have not made the most of my opportunity."
He spoke with a shade of sadness.
Again, she put out her hand impulsively to touch his arm, as she answered
eagerly, "Ah, but no one else will say that. No one else will dare. It
will be the sensation of the year--I tell you. Just you wait until Jim
Rutlidge sees it. Wait until it is hung for exhibition, and he tells the
world about it. Everybody worth while will be coming to you then. And I--I
will remember these hours with you, and be glad that I could help--even
so little. Will you remember them, too, I wonder. Are you glad the picture
is finished?"
"And are you not glad?" he returned meaningly.
They had both forgotten the painting before them. They did not see it.
They each saw only the other.
"No, I am not glad," she said in a low tone. "People would very soon be
talking if I should come here, alone--now that the picture is finished.
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