"
"Nor I at playing the part of confessor," she laughed with him. "But, just
the same, you might tell me what you think of yourself. Aren't you just a
little ashamed?"
The artist had moved to a position in front of her portrait; and, as he
looked upon the painted lie, his answer came. "Rather let me tell you what
I think of _you_, Mrs. Taine. And let me tell you in the language I know
best. Let me put my answer to your charges here," he touched her portrait.
Almost, his reply was worthy of Conrad Lagrange, himself.
"I don't quite understand," she said, a trifle put out by the turn his
answer had taken.
"I mean," he explained eagerly, "that I want to repaint your portrait. You
remember, I wrote, when I returned Mr. Taine's generous check, that I was
not altogether satisfied with it. Give me another chance."
"You mean for me to come here again, to pose for you?--as I did before?"
"Yes," he answered, "just as you did before. I want to make a portrait
worthy of you, as this is not. Let me tell you, on the canvas, what I
cannot--" he hesitated then said deliberately--"what I _dare_ not put into
words."
The woman received his words as a veiled declaration of a passion he dared
not, yet, openly express.
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