Inside the house he became the exponent of the art of which he was past master.  His study was to him only a diversion, but he had become distinguished in it as an amateur who played at being a professional for the interest of it, and who possessed a collection of photographic portraits of half the celebrities in the world.  With eager interest Charlotte watched him manipulate improvised screens and devices for casting light and shadow, and when he posed her understood the result he meant to produce.

“Oh, that will give a new effect!” she said, delightedly.  “I should never have thought of it in the world.”

“It will almost absolutely overcome the flatness of the flashlight, as you will see when we develop it—­if you will let me stay so long.  Now—­”

The flash flared and died.  Brant smiled with gratification.  If he knew what he was doing he had a new portrait of Charlotte Ruston which would surpass anything he had yet made of her.  It seemed to him that during these last weeks she had grown even more desirable than he had ever known her.  There had always been a spirit and enchantment about her personality which had been his undoing, but there was now a quality in it which was well nigh his despair—­the quality born of self-sacrifice and endeavour, those invisible but potent agencies in the creating of the highest type of womanly charm.

The pair went into the dark-room together.  Here, at least, Mr. Brant was able to give sincere approval.  Although the place was cramped no necessary detail was lacking.  Charlotte had not spared expense in transporting material or in fitting the spot with the requisite conveniences for swift and sure work.  In a very few minutes Brant was showing his pupil the negative, which her trained eye was fully able to appreciate.

“Oh, that will make a perfect print,” she exclaimed, everything else forgotten in the joy of the artist over the overcoming of difficulties.  “You certainly have conquered almost the last obstacle to the making of flashlight portraits.  That will be soft as daylight.  I will make the print to-morrow and let you know.”

“You don’t mean to send me merely a report of its appearance, I hope.”

She laughed.  “Of course I’ll make a print for you, if you want it.  Perhaps you’ll admit, when you see the setting, that the old room isn’t such an inartistic choice for a photographer.”

“The old room is delightful—­as a background.  But when your feet are freezing on its cold floor, in the dead of next winter—­Never mind, we won’t go back to that.  I admit it’s a September night, and there’s no use in my borrowing trouble.  Besides, I suppose I must be off in half an hour.  Let’s make the most of it.”

They sat in the room in question and talked of developers and fixing-baths, of processes and results, and Charlotte found such interest in these technical topics that she glowed and sparkled as another woman might have done at talk of quite different things.  She knew well enough that nobody could give her greater aid or inspiration in her work than Eugene Brant, whose signature upon any portrait meant approval in the large world where he was known.