sham; that he only masqueraded in broadcloth, and that his proper dress would be a suit of skins.
To the young artist, accustomed to intercourse with people of her own profession and way of thought, this simple natural man, with few broad traits of character and strong instincts and prejudices, was a constant wonder and amusement. She had understood him instinctively, as Joachim might understand the simple instrument of the Egyptian Fellaheen, two strings stretched over a gourd. But to the peasant musician, the Stradivarius of the master would be a thing of mystery and awe.
So Margaret Ruysdale was to Robert Feuardent a perfect enigma. Her delicate, complex nature, fine and strong, impressed him very much. He could not fail to admire her, but neither could he understand her.
Day after day he had sat by and listened while Margaret worked on her bas-relief and conversed with his friend Philip Rondelet of things as foreign to Robert Feuardent as art is foreign to nature.
It was his turn to-day. Rondelet was left outside, wondering and not understanding, and he, Feuardent, had caught the spirit and the meaning of Margaret's mood, as a dark mountain lake reflects the image of the maiden moon.
