"But, of course, I don't know. Mr. Lagrange thinks, though,
that it is really a splendid portrait."
Mrs. Taine smiled with a confident air, as one might smile at a child.
"Mr. Lagrange, my dear, is a famous novelist--but he really knows very
little of pictures."
"Perhaps you are right," returned Sibyl, simply. "But the picture is not
to be shown as a portrait of me, at all."
Again, that knowing smile. "So I understand, of course. Under the
circumstances, you would scarcely expect it, would you?"
Sibyl, not in the least understanding what the woman meant, answered
doubtfully, "No. I--I did not wish it shown as my portrait."
Mrs. Taine, studying the girl's face, became very earnest in her kindly
interest; as if, moved out of the goodness of her heart, she stooped from
her high place to advise and counsel one of her own sex, who was so wholly
ignorant of the world. "I fear, my dear, that you know very little of
artists and their methods."
To which the girl replied, "I never knew an artist before I met Mr. King,
this summer, in the mountains."
Still watching her face closely, Mrs. Taine said, with gentle solicitude,
"May I tell you something for your own good, Miss Andres?"
"Certainly, if you please, Mrs.
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