on that canvas, as pitilessly as a vivisector uses his victim.
"'I call it,' he said, '"Retribution." Do you like the title?'
"She only looked at him, drawing her shawl closely round her still beautiful figure; a shudder shook her from head to foot.
"'You are very merciless,' she said, and turned away; then paused, and looked back ere she reached the door. 'Take care, she said, 'that I too may not be as merciless—that I too may not have revenge.'
"He made no sign of hearing. Calmly, indifferently as ever, he went on wiping his brushes and putting them aside for the day.
"As the door closed, I turned to him. 'Christian,' I said, 'don't you know who she was? How could you keep up that pretence of ignorance and indifference?'
"'I have known all along,' he said, 'who she was; but that woman died years ago—for me. This, this poor painted ghost has no name and no existence in my life, or memory. Why should she?'
"And you used her—'
"I used her to tell her own story to anyone who looks on—this,' he said, pointing to the picture. 'Fate gave me a better revenge than I could have demanded.'
"'It seems cruel,' I said, looking at the canvas, where the living story of the living woman spoke out in merciless fidelity.
"'No,' he said, it is only just.' He left the studio then, but I remained for long, studying every detail of that work of his, whose subject he had chosen with no thought that the real heroine should also be the model.
"At his feet knelt a woman."
"It was simple; but it told a story, as all his pictures did. A room luxurious, but not pretentious. In the middle of the room stood a man. His face was half averted; but the figure—and the slight glimpse of that stern and handsome profile were eloquent with a determination as strong as death—relentless as justice. At his feet knelt a woman, her face agonised, despairing; the young haggard misery of it haunted one despite oneself. The loosened masses of dark hair swept the ground. Her clasped hands, her strange, imploring eyes, her parted lips that seemed tremulous with life, all spoke out appeal—appeal for mercy—for forgiveness; while on the face, with its lost youth and its feverish passions and haggard beauty, was stamped indelibly the history of a past where she had wronged, and he suffered.
"The gesture of his outstretched hand that thrust her aside as some loathsome evil thing, the mute disgust and stern relentlessness of his whole attitude spoke out like a living voice. One heard it, and wondered what could have been the wrong that never would bring her forgiveness; yet, even while wondering, seemed to guess the truth. I looked at it until my eyes grew dim. So many years, and yet his wrecked youth, his wasted love had brought him vengeance. How deep a hold that one brief passion must have taken on his life and memory; even now, at this distance of time, it could arm him with strength to teach others the lesson he had learnt in the first years of youth and faith. I turned away at last. In some vague way I felt sorry for the woman whose vanished beauty, and evil life, and sore need, had left her at the mercy of
