Having said this, he took his hat, which lay on the table beside my

palette. Once more he looked at the portrait.

"She IS lovely," he murmured. "She is well named the Rose of the

World, indeed!"

"And may I not paint one like it for you?"

"CUI BONO? No."

He drew over the picture the sheet of thin paper on which I was

accustomed to rest my hand in painting, to prevent the cardboard

from being sullied. What he suddenly saw on this blank paper, it

was impossible for me to tell; but something had caught his eye. He

took it up with a snatch; he looked at the edge; then shot a glance

at me, inexpressibly peculiar, and quite incomprehensible: a glance

that seemed to take and make note of every point in my shape, face,

and dress; for it traversed all, quick, keen as lightning. His lips

parted, as if to speak: but he checked the coming sentence,

whatever it was.

"What is the matter?" I asked.

"Nothing in the world," was the reply; and, replacing the paper, I

saw him dexterously tear a narrow slip from the margin. It

disappeared in his glove; and, with one hasty nod and "good-

afternoon," he vanished.

"Well!" I exclaimed, using an expression of the district, "that caps

the globe, however!"

I, in my turn, scrutinised the paper; but saw nothing on it save a

few dingy stains of paint where I had tried the tint in my pencil.

I pondered the mystery a minute or two; but finding it insolvable,

and being certain it could not be of much moment, I dismissed, and

soon forgot it.




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