’"When I was a child?” I said, laughing.  “But I see what it is.  I have been very neglectful.  I promised to go into the studio to see the pictures, and he is, of course, impatient at my keeping him waiting.  I will go to him at once,” and I went.

’When I entered the studio he turned quickly round and said,

’"Well?”

’"You were so kind,” I said, “as to invite me to see your treasures.”

’"To be sure,” he said.  “I thought you came to give your decision.”

’He then showed me the curious divan upon which I had rested the day before, and explained to me the meaning of the carved designs.’

VIII

Winifred described the designs on the divan so vividly that I could almost see them.  But what interested me was the painter, not his surroundings; and she now seemed to grow weary of talking about herself.

‘Did he,’ I said, ‘did he say anything about—­about painters’ models?’

‘Yes,’ she said, ’Mr. D’Arcy took me to an easel and showed me a picture.  It was only the half-length of a woman; but it was a tragedy rendered fully by the expression on one woman’s face.

’"I had no idea,” I said, “that any picture of a single face could do such work as that.  Was this painted from a model?”

’"Yes,” he said, with a smile, which was evidently at my ignorance of art.  “It was painted from life.”

’There were four other half-lengths in the room, all of them very beautiful.

’"Two of these,” he said, “are copies; the originals have been sold.  The other two need still a few touches to make them complete.”

’"And they were all painted from life?” I said.

’"Yes,” he said.  “Why do you repeat that question?”

’"Because,” I said, “although they are all so wonderful and so beautiful in colour, I can see a great difference between them—­I can scarcely say what the difference is.  They are evidently all painted by the same artist, but painted in different moods of the artist’s mind.”

’"Ah,” he said, “I am much interested.  Let me see you classify them according to your view.  There are, as you see, two brunettes and two blondes.”

’"Yes,” I said, “between this grand brunette, to use your own expression, holding a pomegranate in her hand and the other brunette whose beautiful eyes are glistening and laughing over the fruit she is holding up, there is the same difference that there is between the blonde’s face under the apple blossoms and the other blonde’s face of the figure that is listening to music.  In both faces the difference seems to be that of the soul.”

’"The two faces,” said he, “in which you see what you call soul are painted from two dear friends of mine—­ladies of high intelligence and great accomplishments, who occasionally honour me by giving me sittings—­the other two are painted from two of the finest hired models to be found in London.”