would not do. It was this conclusion to which the astute Jew arrived after the third or fourth day.
The portrait being ready painted in Alaric Baring's mind, its progress on canvas was rapid. There was no hesitation, no "pentimento." He knew what he wanted to do, and each stroke told. Elizabeth felt a glow of pleasure when she saw it after the fourth sitting. It seemed to her a really masterly portrait, finely modelled, and instinct with life. Melchior, who stood by, asked if she thought it did him justice. She replied that it almost persuaded her to become an impressionist, it was so admirable. It was the finest work she had seen of Mr. Baring's. Finer than the "Venetian Senator?" he inquired, watching her with a curious smile. Yes, finer than the "Venetian Senator," she answered, without wincing.
At this moment Alaric was called out of the room, and Melchior, taking advantage of his absence, said rapidly in a low voice—
"If you think this the finer picture, mademoiselle, shall we exchange?"
"Exchange! What do you mean?" She turned sharply round.
"You possess the 'Venetian Senator,'" he whispered, smiling.
She flushed to the roots of her hair. "Who told you so? Not Mr. Baring?"
"No; I learnt it by accident."
"And you have told no one?"
"No one," he replied, still with that Satanic smile. "The secret is ours. It is delightful to have a secret
