was as squalid and repulsive a picture as could well be imagined.

"Yes," replied Lottie, looking into his face with twinkling eyes,
"was that sweet pastoral scene an expression of creative thought?"

"The woman certainly was not," he answered, reddening. "A thought
may be greatly perverted."

"Whatever moral qualities may be asserted of her manners, costume,
and character," said Harcourt, "she is not to blame for the cast
of her features and the color of her hair. I scarcely know of
an artist who would express any such thought, unless he wished to
satirize humanity."

"You can call up before you the portrait of some beautiful woman,
can you not, Mr. Harcourt?"

"Let me assist you," cried De Forrest, pulling from his inner pocket
a photograph of Lottie.

"Hush, Julian. I'm sorry you do not appreciate this grave argument
more; I'll take that picture from you, if you don't behave better."

"Well, I have a picture before me now, that satisfies me fully,"
said Mr. Harcourt, turning to Lottie with a smiling bow.

"Now, suppose that you had painted just such a likeness and finished
it. Suppose I should come afterwards, and, without destroying your
picture utterly, should blend with those features the forbidding
aspect of the woman we have just seen, would you not say that your