“Yes, I overheard what you said to him.  Thank you so much.”

“In return, may I ask you something?”

“Certainly.”

“Will you not, for his own good, dissuade Mr. Tenney from throwing away his career?”

“Why should you suppose me to have any influence with Mr. Tenney?”

Mr. Merrill’s face was grave, as befitted the issue, but a twinkle appeared at the corner of his glasses.  “I’ve seen the portrait,” he replied, and with a bow, went on his way.

Julien opened the door to her knock.  She stepped inside, facing him with bright, inscrutable eyes.

“Why have you been fooling me about your circumstances?” she demanded.

“D—–­n Merrill!” said Julien with fervor.

“It’s true that your ‘pot-boiling’ brings you a big income?”

“Yes.”

“Then why do you take employment as a chauffeur?”

“I don’t.  That car belongs to me.”

“And your being a waiter?  I don’t suppose the Taverne Splendide belongs to you?”

“An impromptu bit of acting,” confessed the abashed Julien.

“And this attic?  Was that hired for the same comedy?”

“No.  This is mine, really.”

“I don’t understand.  Why have you done it all?”

“If you want to know the truth,” he said defiantly, “so that I could keep on seeing you.”

“That’s a very poor excuse,” she retorted.

“The best in the world.  As a successful commercial artist, what possible interest would you have taken in me?  You took me for a struggling young painter—­that was the Bonnie Lassie’s fault, for I never lied to you about it—­and after we’d started on that track I didn’t—­well, I didn’t have the courage to risk losing you by quitting the masquerade.”

“How you must have laughed at me all the time!”

He flushed to his angry eyes.  “Do you think that is fair?” he retorted.  “Or kind?  Or true?”

“I—­I don’t know,” she faltered.  “You let me offer you money.  And you’ve probably got as much as I have.”

“I won’t have from now on, then.  I’m going to paint.  I thought, when you told me you were going away, that I couldn’t look at a canvas again.  But now I know I was wrong.  I’ve got to paint.  You’ll have left me that, at least.”

“Mr. Merrill thinks you’re ruining your career.  And if you do, it’ll be my fault.  I’ll never, never, never,” said the patroness of Art desolately, “try to do any one good again!”

She turned toward the door.

“At least,” said Julien in a voice which threatened to get out of control, “you’ll know that it wasn’t all masquerade.  You’ll know why I’ll always keep the picture, even if I never paint another.”

She stole a look at him over her shoulder and, with a thrill, saw the passion in his eyes and the pride that withheld him from speaking.

“Suppose,” she said, “I asked you to give it up.”