Taine," he answered, and
drew the curtain that hid the painting.
As the woman looked upon that portrait of herself, into which Aaron King
had painted, with all the skill at his command, everything that he had
seen in her face as she posed for him, she stood a moment as though
stunned. Then, with a gesture of horror and shame, she shrank back, as
though the painted thing accused her of being what, indeed, she really
was.
Turning to the artist, imploringly, she whispered, "Is it--is it--true? Am
I--am I _that_?"
Aaron King, remembering how she had sent the girl he loved so nearly to a
shameful end, and thinking of those bones at the foot of the cliff,
answered justly; "At least, madam, there is more truth in that picture
than in the things you said to Miss Andres, here in this room, the day you
left Fairlands."
Her face went white with quick rage, but, controling herself, she said,
"And where is the picture of your _mistress_? I should like to see it
again, please."
"Gladly, madam," returned the artist. "Because you are a woman, it is the
only answer I can make to your charge; which, permit me to say, is as
false as that portrait of you is true."
Quickly he pushed another easel to a position beside the one that held
Mrs.
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