again; then turned to his model. She was no longer Mrs. Detlor, but his
subject, near to him as his canvas and the creatures of his imagination,
but as a mere woman in whom he was profoundly interested (that at least)
an immeasurable distance from him. He was the artist only now.

It was strange. There grew upon the canvas Mrs. Detlor's face, all the
woman of it, just breaking through sweet, awesomely beautiful, girlish
features; and though the work was but begun there was already that
luminous tone which artists labor so hard to get, giving to the face a
weird, yet charming expression.

For an hour he worked, then he paused. "Would you like to see it?" he
said.

She rose eagerly, and a little pale. He had now sketched in more
distinctly the figure of the man, changed it purposely to look more like
Telford. She saw her own face first. It shone out of the canvas. She gave
a gasp of pain and admiration. Then she caught sight of Telford's figure,
with the face blurred and indistinct.

"Oh!" she said with a shudder. That--that is like him. How could you
know?"

"If that is the man," he said, "I saw him this morning. Is his name Mark
Telford?"

"Yes," she said, and sank into a chair. Presently she sprang to her feet,
caught up a brush and put it into his hand. "Paint in his face. Quick!
Paint in his face. Put all his wickedness there."