"He could only sit and brood."
the soulless butterfly she was to the sunshine and brightness offered by wealth. He came back to the old bare garret, and the old hard life. He could not work, he could only sit and brood listlessly day after day, or break out into passionate fits of rage and despair. At last he became very ill. I nursed him back to life; but when he rose from that bed he was utterly changed. Aged as if by years; sad, hopeless, embittered. That was a woman's work. How often and how successfully she has done it! I got him away from Paris at last, and we came to England. I had a little money, and I worked—not for art's sake, but for his—at those popular trifles which have no merit save that they 'sell.' That word had only the merit of necessity for me; but it was another's necessity, and I worked for him, and still hoped. Years passed. Success came slowly and grudgingly to both of us. We lived together, and tried to believe we were content, and had won something better than the fairy promise of our youth, and the illusions of its dreams of fame. One day Christian confided to me that he was unable to procure a satisfactory model for the picture he was engaged upon for the next Academy. It was to be a very large one, the subject was ambitious and needed careful treatment; and, as I listened to his difficulty, I agreed that it would be almost hopeless to expect from any professional model such a combination of qualities as he desired.
"'Suppose you advertise,' I said. 'State exactly what you require—it is sure to be answered.'
"After some consideration, he decided to do so. Needless to say, he had many answers and applications; but none were suitable. That evening, however, as we were sitting at work, making the most of the brief daylight left to us, a knock came at the studio door. It was opened, on our invitation, by a woman, who stood hesitating a moment as if she did not like to enter.
"'Pray come in,' I said, laying down my brush. 'What is it we can do for you?'
"'I—I saw your advertisement,' she said. Her voice was low and hurried, and she spoke with a foreign accent. 'I am not a model; but if I could serve—if I could suit you'
"Her face was veiled; I could only see the flash of dark eyes, the loose masses of dusky hair.
"'It is my friend who requires a model,' I said. 'It is not necessary that you should have sat professionally before. It is expression he desires, and—'
"'Oh,' she cried, clasping her hands with a passionate gesture. 'That surely would not be difficile. I have been actress—comédienne—chanteuse. I think it is in me to express what monsieur desires.'
"Christian came forward then and looked at her. I thought his face seemed strangely pale in the waning light of the sunset. The woman threw back her veil. I started as I looked. Young as was the face, great as once might have been its beauty, it was painfully haggard and lined, marred by suffering and passion, bearing only too plainly the stamp of sin and evil living. Christian looked at her silently for a moment. He asked no questions, only bent
