parted in the middle, and beautiful modelling about the chin and throat. "Now, what do you think?"
"As I remember the picture, the likeness is there," said Teresa. "But it looks older than you do—and sadder. Basil's portraits are almost always like that—what the person will be like in ten years, say—the character accentuated, the lines sharper—I reproach him for it," she added smiling. "It would be better to paint a pretty woman as she is, don't you think so?"
Mrs. Perry had listened with interest, her big, dark eyes fixed on Teresa.
"I don't know—perhaps his way is more an interpretation," she said abruptly. "It is interesting, at least. Anyone almost can paint a pretty woman, but to see what she is"
"He only paints what he sees, of course—only he sees, perhaps, what isn't there!"
"No, it's all there—all that may be, all that we must be—we must grow old—and sad! I wish we could see the picture."
Teresa waved a doubtful hand toward the rows of canvases stacked face inward against the wall.
"We might try," she suggested.
"No—I won't wait. And, besides, you're busy. I'm—no, I'm not sorry I interrupted you, for I'm very glad to have seen you," she said with a quick smile, as she went to the mirror to put on
