dW:D "LISLE 
 
THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF ILLINOIS 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
A PAINTER OF 
 SOULS 
 
 BY 
 
 DAVID LISLE 
 
 NEW YORK 
 FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY 
 PUBLISHERS 
 
Miss TOM AND PARTY 
 
 NOT FORGETTING 
 
 THE House of Ghouls 
 
 I DEDICATE 
 THIS BOOK, WITHOUT PERMISSION, 
 
 ^ D. L, 
 
 2111 61 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 PRINCESS BORIZOFF had elected to spend the autumn 
 in Rome, and, in the early days of a delicious October, 
 her beauty, entertainments and extravagances occupied the 
 attention of Society — black, white and grey. 
 
 On the Pincian, not far from the Villa Borghese, the 
 gardens of the Villa Borizoff spread themselves over the 
 famous Hill of Flowers of the Caesars. The property, which 
 had been purchased from an impoverished Roman family by 
 a Borizoff Prince of a past generation, possessed historic 
 interest, the marble loggia, recently added by the present 
 owner, covering ground which had once formed part of the 
 gardens of Lucullus; fatal gardens, since Valerius Asiaticus 
 lost his life because of his refusal to deliver them up to 
 Messalina. 
 
 On the Pincian — so runs the legend — the restless spirit of 
 the woman whose fame is infamous wanders to and fro over 
 the ground she had, in life, fiercely coveted; but certain 
 members of the black" world professed themselves surprised 
 to find her bust, resting on a pillar encircled with scarlet 
 passion flowers, in the loggia of the Villa Borizoff. Cardinal 
 Santanini, Camerlingo of the Pope and personal friend of the 
 Princess, had, on one occasion, softly expostulated, but 
 the reply, accompanied by a bewildering smile, was baffling. 
 " But, your Eminence, it really is her right ! She made merry 
 in these gardens before any member of the Borizoff house 
 was born. It is our habit to make her name the synonym of 
 feminine vice, but is it not true that she lived in the days 
 I 
 
2 
 
 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 when the spoken words of the Divine Nazarene were still 
 ringing in the ears of many? Nearly two thousand years 
 have come and gone since then, but do you really think that 
 vice has been disarmed by virtue ? Have we now no Messa- 
 linas in our salons ? " The Cardinal had bowed his stately old 
 head in deprecating silence. He liked and admired the 
 beautiful woman who was the intimate friend of his favourite 
 niece, but in his heart he feared her delicately-veiled irony. 
 He was a Prince of the Church and a very important 
 personage, but, notwithstanding his sixty odd years and the 
 amethyst ring on the third finger of his right hand, he realized 
 that it was not always profitable to argue with her. She had 
 a special talent for uncovering the weak point, if one existed, 
 in the armour of an adversary. 
 
 Alexander Borizoff, the original purchaser of the villa, had 
 been a man of autocratic will and somewhat bizarre taste. 
 His imagination, stimulated by histories of the past and sup- 
 ported by great wealth, had tempted him to give form to 
 extravagant ideas. He had made the house luxurious to the 
 point of exaggeration, and had filled it with works of art which 
 roused the envy of connoisseurs. 
 
 The bedroom he had occupied was hung with magnificent 
 silken tapestries which had once been the property of Gian 
 Andrea Doria, and in a small octagonal room leading off it 
 an exquisite Eros of Praxiteles was enshrined ; the only other 
 object in the silent chamber being a Greek vase of strange 
 design which had been taken from an Etruscan tomb in the 
 dead city of Vulci. The present owner was a woman of fine taste 
 and she frankly detested the state reception rooms, with their 
 walls of gleaming gold and their carved ceilings inset with 
 ivory and tortoise-shell, but she acknowledged the fascination 
 of the much-talked-of baths, constructed on the plan of those 
 owned by Petronius Arbiter, and took genuine delight in the 
 picture galleries which stretched away from the house at the 
 back : long, low rooms — with walls of grey-green canvas, 
 bordered by a frieze of black and white marbles, and floors 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 3 
 
 of mosaics — which contained marbles that had taken shape 
 under the hands of Angelo, and precious specimens of the art 
 of Sandro Botticelli, Lippi, Raphael and others. In a small 
 room at the far end of the galleries there were some fine 
 frescoes by Melozzo da Forli and — hung side by side — a 
 Madonna by Cimabue and an admirable copy of Giotto's 
 " Death of Saint Francis." 
 
 In the galleries there were many palms and giant ferns 
 in pots of burnished copper, the mosaic floors were dotted 
 with Persian rugs, and even in the autumn days the windows 
 giving on the gardens were almost always open for the whole 
 house was heated to 20 degrees Reaumur. Its owner loved 
 an atmosphere warm, fresh, and flower-scented. She ridiculed 
 the warnings of physicians and friends who assured her that 
 no one could live in a hot-house and hope to preserve health. 
 
 My dear friends,'' she said, "how like you are to placid 
 sheep. Someone jingles a wether bell and you all trot along, 
 without question. How very stupid m.ust have been the 
 someone who attached wings to the assertion that there is 
 something salutary about conditions which leave a human 
 being half roasted and half frozen in a hermetically sealed 
 room ? For surely it cannot be denied that open fires heat 
 nothing except the imagination. From the scenic point of 
 view they are admirable but otherwise — ? " 
 
 The Princess was not a sentimental woman but she was 
 capable of friendship and she cherished real affection for two 
 members of her own sex. One of these was the Duchessa 
 della Rocca, whose mother was Cardinal Santanini's sister, 
 and the other the Hon. Mrs Charles Waring, a pretty 
 and sufficiently wealthy widow of English and Irish parent- 
 age. As girls the three friends had been educated at the 
 SacrS Coeur at Paris and in the high-walled gardens of the 
 convent, while demurely pacing up and down they had 
 exchanged vows of eternal friendship. 
 
 At least once in each year the Princess came to Rome 
 to see Bianca della Rocca, whose family ties did not permit 
 
4 
 
 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 her to travel, and when it was possible Clio Waring made a 
 point of visiting the Eternal City at the same time. The 
 Villa Borizoff and the Palazzo della Rocca were always open 
 to her, but this autumn she had elected to play the role of 
 free lance. Some friends were installed at the Grand, and, 
 in spite of expostulations, she had joined them. The Princess, 
 merciless in raillery, had more than once suggested, with 
 obvious meaning, that she provided her guests with latch 
 keys, but Clio held her ground bravely. 
 
 Nevertheless she v/as constantly at the villa, and on a 
 certain afternoon early in October she was sitting in one of 
 the smaller salons, smoking a cigarette as she dreamily 
 watched the flaming pine logs on the open hearth and noted 
 their reflection on the waxen pallor of some tall lilies standing 
 close by in a vase of dark ware which bore on its base the 
 golden seal of Chojiro. 
 
 On the terrace rays of sunshine streamed like golden rain 
 through the interstices of trellised rose walks and gave 
 semblance of life to a marble amorino holding aloft a great 
 lily in a fountain framed with ivy. Through the open 
 windows came a faint perfume of white jasmine, and on the 
 still air the twitter of birds floated up from the elms by the 
 lake. It was the hour of Vespers and a soft radiance from 
 the west flooded the room, bringing with it an impression 
 of infinite calm. A web of fire and mist, gleaming and 
 iridescent, crept in and caressed Clio Waring's bright hair 
 as she lay back in a big arm-chair ; there was a suggestion 
 of dreams in her half-closed eyes. 
 
 She was very charming — in face, figure, manner, little 
 ways, everything. One of those exceptional women who, 
 not French, can wear Paris clothes with the subtle grace 
 of a Parisienne. She was chic from the crown of her dainty 
 head to the rounded toe of her American shoe, but no one 
 could have ventured to describe her as smart." Her hair, 
 nut-brown and naturally wavy, grew deliciously on her 
 forehead, and her eyes, darker than the hair, were by turns, 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 5 
 
 and at discretion, mischievous, caressing, inquisitive and 
 politely insolent. She was rather tall but her figure was so 
 svelte and girlish that people — especially men, and in their 
 thoughts — considered her small. She had hands which 
 proclaimed race, a mouth specially made for kisses, and a 
 temper. 
 
 And as she watched, through a veil of dark lashes, the 
 woman who was her intimate friend something irritated the 
 delicate fibres of that temper and set them vibrating. 
 
 Clio was free from jealousy as a daughter of Eve could 
 hope to be, but there were moments, and this happened to 
 be one of them, when the personality of Gabrielle Borizoff 
 filled her with something like resentment. 
 
 In just what did it consist — the matchless charm that 
 defied imitation, the distinction, envied by queens, that 
 never failed to impress itself on men and women alike? 
 Other women might purchase the same wonderful dresses, 
 or something very like them : create the same luxurious 
 environments : become owners of the same superb jewels. 
 It was even possible that other women might possess equal 
 beauty of feature. And yet — who could hope to rival her? 
 
 Cho impatiently flicked off a cigarette ash as a door 
 opened softly. The setting sun was still brilliant and all the 
 long French windows were wide open, but servants, in the 
 black and white liveries of the Borizoff house, entered with 
 silver lamps shaded in pale rose silk ; a table laden with 
 silver and with rare old Satsuma of Tangen design was placed 
 by the side of the chaise-longue on which the Princess was 
 lying. 
 
 At the tinkle of tea-cups she opened her dark eyes and 
 smiled. 
 
 " Have I been asleep ? " she asked apologetically. 
 Clio nodded. 
 
 Pretending," she said as she threw aside her cigarette 
 and critically examined the cake plates. 
 
 Her hostess drew the folds of her tea-gown of Venetian 
 
6 
 
 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 guipure and Mechlin more closely about her and bent 
 forward to take some pale roses from a bowl. She fastened 
 them in the laces at her breast and stifled a yawn as she 
 pushed back her dark hair from her forehead. She was 
 feeling pleasantly tired after a long ride in the Campagna. 
 Fresh winds blowing in from Frascati had tinged with faint 
 coral the whiteness of the skin and she was looking very 
 lovely. 
 
 While resting on the satin cushions of her lounge she 
 had been lazily contemplating the garlands of roses which 
 formed the frieze of her favourite sitting-room. A famous 
 painter had signed the work : it was a marvel of grace and 
 in perfect harmony with the ivory walls, but it seemed to 
 her, just then, that the single blossoms which here and there 
 broke away from their companions were too strong in tone. 
 She fancied it might be worth while to have the room freshly 
 decorated. She stretched out her hand for the cup of tea 
 Clio had poured out, but even as she took it she glanced 
 again at the loose roses. 
 
 "Does that Irish friend of yours paint flowers?" she 
 asked. 
 
 Mrs Waring put down her cup abruptly. 
 "What friend?" 
 " Mr Miles Bering." 
 
 " My dear Gabrielle — what do you mean ? What 
 flowers ? And why ? " 
 
 The Princess laughed a little maliciously. 
 
 "You consider flower painting beneath the notice of 
 this wonderful young man? But really, quite admirable 
 artists have deigned to paint them ! Latour, for example, 
 and — others." 
 
 The ready colour mounted to Clio's face. She was 
 sensitive of ridicule. 
 
 "Of course, I know all that; but what flowers did you 
 mean when you spoke of Miles Bering?" 
 
 "Roses." Eloquent fingers rich in milk-white pearls 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 7 
 
 and gleaming diamonds indicated the top of the room. 
 Mrs Waring's brown eyes, wide open and amazed, flashed 
 upwards. 
 
 You want Miles Dering to paint a frieze?" 
 
 The tone of resentment was so unmistakable that the 
 Princess laughed again. 
 I asked if he could." 
 
 There was silence while Clio^s expressive eyes examined 
 the face of the woman in the lounge chair. She was asking 
 herself whether this wonderful friend of hers was really great, 
 from the point of view of intelligence, or whether she had 
 been so thoroughly spoiled by unlimited wealth and blind 
 worship that she found it possible to make an autocratic 
 belief in herself seem great? 
 
 They had long been the best of friends, but Clio divined 
 that she had never penetrated very far behind the dazzling 
 veil which spread itself before the subtle personality of the 
 Princess. Bianca della Rocca she warmly liked and under- 
 stood : Gabrielle Borizoff she warmly admired and did not 
 understand. The nature of the threads which bound her 
 to these companions of her school-days lay revealed. 
 
 At last she said : 
 
 "Look here, Gabrielle — don't you think you make a 
 mistake when you insistently belittle people? There really 
 is such a thing as genius, and there really are people in the 
 world who are not at all ordinary. Miles Dering, for example. 
 He's a tremendous sort of person and it's absurd to try and 
 drag him down to the level of the painter men one meets 
 here, who make everything and everyone look pretty and 
 ordinary." 
 
 Princess Borizoff had an adorable mouth and at that 
 moment it accepted an invasion of mischievous curves. 
 Her dark eyes gleamed as she folded her arms behind her 
 head and lay back against the cushions. 
 
 **I like to make you, what that nice little boy Tuke 
 calls, * shirty ' ! I have not the least idea what the word 
 
8 
 
 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 actually means, but I know it represents you at this moment. 
 Your English language is wonderfully expressive/' 
 
 "I never heard the word. And may I ask what 
 Captain Tuke has to do with what I have been 
 saying?" 
 
 " Nothing — except that he has supplied me with a 
 mysteriously expressive little word ! You are ^ shirty * about 
 my suggestion that perhaps — it was only perhaps, you will 
 remember — Mr Bering might, if he would, and if I invited 
 him, rearrange my frieze. You think I have * belittled ' 
 him, but why? Bouguereau painted the cupids on the walls 
 of one of the salons, and Baudry did not think it beneath 
 his dignity to decorate the staircase. These men have 
 certainly painted 'pretty' things, but they have done them 
 very well and their names are not unknown? " 
 
 **Yes, I know/' Clio stopped short and a flood of 
 colour, ever ready, rushed into her cheeks. She was free 
 from nervousness as a street gamin, but Gabrielle Borizoff 
 had the power to disconcert her. "I want you to meet 
 Miles Bering,'' she went on quickly. I believe you would 
 like him and you have so much influence over people you 
 could, if you would take the trouble, do him no end 
 of good." 
 
 ^'^Good'?" 
 
 " Well, I mean in a practical sort of way. You could, 
 for example, make him see that it's necessary to take people 
 as he finds them and to make money." 
 Boes he profess to despise money?" 
 
 There was disdain in the languid tone and Clio was 
 again on the defensive. 
 
 *'0f course not, but he has curious ideas and people 
 don't understand them. I Uke him immensely and I like 
 his sister. I want him to make a big success and to make 
 people acknowledge that he is a genius." 
 
 The Princess smiled. 
 Genius is a big word. It does not often represent 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 9 
 
 happiness, but perhaps your friend possesses something of its 
 spirit. Almost I think it may be so." 
 " But you have never seen him ? 
 
 "No. But I have seen something he has painted. It 
 will interest you and we must speak of it later, but now tell 
 me what is dancing about in that excitable brain of yours .'^ 
 You want me to do something — what is it ? 
 
 " I want you to make Miles Bering wish to paint your 
 portrait." 
 
 "Wish to paint it? But he will certainly *wishM As 
 certainly as I shall not wish to have it done. I am quite 
 willing to do what I can for anyone in whom you are interested, 
 but I really could not submit to having my portrait painted 
 by an artist who goes in for being eccentric. I have a 
 horror of the young men who exhibit at the Salon des 
 Independants,^^ 
 
 "Why do you suppose that Miles Bering exhibits at the 
 Independants ? " 
 
 "I do not suppose it. I do not 'suppose' anything 
 about the man, but you yourself admit that he is 'extra- 
 ordinary,' and Carlo Lucci gave me an amusing description 
 of his portrait of Br Boyenbert. I am convinced he is clever, 
 but these young artists often express themselves in an 
 eccentric manner before settling down into their right places. 
 I very much dislike having my portrait painted, even by 
 artists whose work I admire, and an eccentric portrait would 
 make me the young man's enemy." 
 
 "Oh — if you've made up your mind to have nothing to 
 do with him ! " 
 
 "But I have not. On the contrary I am quite willing 
 to make his acquaintance. If you care to take the trouble 
 you may tell him to come to my loge at the Costanzi to-night. 
 I suppose, since he meets with your approval, he does not 
 affect an artistic style of dress? Decollete^ with a large tie, 
 or anything of that sort." The suggestion was greeted with 
 insolent laughter. 
 
10 
 
 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 He is not the accepted Quartier Latin type, if you mean 
 that. His father commanded the 17th Lancers." 
 
 "Irrelevant but I am sure conclusive. I have some 
 knowledge of English shibboleth. Your manner of making 
 the statement reminds me of dear old Lady Egerton's 
 * people.' When I was staying with her at Fenton-Wold I 
 came to the conclusion that it was one of the most eloquent 
 words in the English language. When anyone's name was 
 mentioned she simply said, *my people know him' or 'none 
 of my people know his, or her, people,' and the social position 
 of the person named was indicated — finally. Just at first I 
 expressed an opinion that even * people ' might be individual, 
 and that it was not, perhaps, safe to place such absolute 
 dependence on the magic word, but she simply smiled at me 
 deliciously and said — ' My dear Princess, of course you cannot 
 understand. You are very, very clever, but then you are a 
 foreigner ' ! " 
 
 Clio laughed. Then she said thoughtfully : 
 " I'll send him round a note. It will be rather interesting 
 — if he comes. The de Brissac party will certainly be there." 
 Interesting? " 
 
 "Yes, because I fancy Miles Bering, who is the most 
 difficil of men, has fallen a victim, more or less, to the 
 fascinations of that extraordinarily pretty girl who is staying 
 with Madame de Brissac. It's not a serious affair, of course, 
 for Violet Hilliard, lovely though she is, would be the last 
 person likely to attract him, really^ but he is going to paint 
 her portrait and I am curious to see them together." 
 
 " I am afraid you will not have an opportunity to-night 
 for I certainly shall not invite Madame de Brissac into my 
 loger 
 
 " But you receive her ? " 
 
 "When I receive tout le monde. I think her type deplor- 
 able, but Henri de Brissac's sister has always been intimate 
 with my family, and even with me, and it is absurd to exhibit 
 more loyalty than the King. Henri de Brissac has elected 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 II 
 
 to accept — a great many things, Serge Platoff amongst others, 
 et que voulez vous ? Bianca is beginning to get nervous. I 
 had a note from her this morning in which she asks whether 
 she ought to include the de Brissac party in the invitations 
 to her next reception." 
 
 " And your answer ? " 
 Just what I have said to you. The comfort of society 
 is based on the unwritten law that what the husband does not 
 resent does not exist. I object to Madame de Brissac because 
 I find that everything she does or says is in bad taste, but every- 
 one receives her — so far. Just what may happen if she does 
 not take the trouble to conciliate PlatofPs sister remains to be 
 seen. Nadine spent part of last winter at the Villa Platoff, 
 when her brother was entertaining Madame de Brissac, and 
 since then she has — said things." 
 
 " She is stupid — the de Brissac woman." 
 
 "No. She is ignorant." 
 
 "But her people are all right." 
 
 The Princess leaned back against the cushions and smiled 
 maliciously. 
 
 " Even you cannot escape from the tentacles of shibboleth ! 
 I know very little about her * people,' but she herself seems 
 to me deplorable, as a type, and Serge Platoff's admiration 
 for her proves that atavism is becoming impotent. An 
 ancestor of his, the founder of his house, was a favourite of 
 the great Catherine. He was of those who had influence 
 over her and if he had lived he would probably have become 
 more famous, or infamous, than Potomkin. The Empress 
 was not at all a ' moral ' woman, but her manners, for the 
 time in which she lived, were excellent and she knew how to 
 make herself feared. She did that which pleased her, and I 
 do not defend her conduct, but she never condescended to 
 play the role of an artist of the theatres for the purpose of 
 attracting attention. She commanded attention and accepted 
 it when it pleased her." 
 
 Clio assented vaguely; her imagination was at work. 
 
12 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 Gabrielle Borizoff was also of those who knew how to 
 command attention and admiration, and what did it profit 
 her? Men had loved her to the point of madness, but had 
 their love brought her any special gratification? Had she 
 ever cared for any one of them ? 
 
 She was a woman of subtle charm. The greatest of 
 modern poets once said of her — " Princess Borizoff possesses 
 a fascination which can only be apprehended slowly — under- 
 standingly: as the fascination of an illusive, decadent 
 perfume." 
 
 Her life had flowered early and richly. She had always 
 been beautiful, autocratic, adored. 
 
 For her husband she had felt nothing more than friendly 
 indifierence : he had never been permitted to interfere with 
 her life. She had not disliked him but his death had 
 brought her something of relief. She was, and always 
 had been, a law to herself. She had never realized the 
 possibility of a human influence entering into her life — 
 appreciably. 
 
 She looked lovely, even to the eyes of another woman, as 
 she lay back against the ivory satin cushions in that delicious 
 room, where draperies and furniture coverings were all in 
 shades of white, where the carpet was leaf green, and where 
 silver gleamed at every point. Only on the walls, with their 
 borders of falling roses and on the shrouded lamps, was there 
 a touch of colour. Even the roses and jasmine and lilies of 
 the valley, massed together in low, silver bowls on the tables, 
 were white or cream or ivory. 
 
 It was the favourite room of a woman who understood her 
 possibilities. To women of lesser or different beauty those 
 ivory draperies must have proved disastrous, but for Gabrielle 
 Borizoff they formed an ideal frame. 
 
 Her skin was flawless and her eyes, dark and mysterious as 
 a midnight sky, gave such brilliancy to her face that no back- 
 ground of vivid colour was needed. 
 
 Mrs Waring remained silent quite a long time and then, 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 13 
 
 with a gesture suggestive of impatience, she glanced at a little 
 jewelled watch on her chatelaine. 
 
 " It is getting late/' she said; then added inconsequently : 
 " Mr Underwood said he would call for me. He was to be 
 at the Villa Borghese this afternoon with some people." 
 
 The Princess smiled. 
 I like very much your big American friend ; I am glad 
 he is going to call to-day. His face is hard and rather 
 stern, but he is attractive. You are thinking of marrying 
 him ? " 
 
 Clio flushed up. 
 
 " My dear Gabrielle ! What do you mean ? Mr Under- 
 wood is a married man." 
 
 '^Justementl Mais a quoi bon parler de tout ga si tu es 
 pince ? " 
 
 ^ Pince^ ? But how ridiculous. When did you begin to 
 adopt the slang of the Boulevards ? " 
 The Princess laughed maliciously. 
 
 " It may be slang but I think it is true. I have seen you 
 together and I am not unobservant." 
 " But he is married." 
 
 " Yes. But in that wonderful country of his they arrange 
 such things very easily and then — you are only half a Catholic 
 I do not think it would give you much pain to return to the 
 faith of your mother ? " 
 
 Clio looked distinctly annoyed. 
 
 " It is quite possible to be great friends with a man with- 
 out wanting to marry him." 
 
 " Quite ! But then the possible does not always run with 
 the actual, and it is with the actual that we are concerned. Of 
 course I do not countenance divorce, but I cannot help 
 seeing that this American is very intelligent and that he looks 
 like a man ! I very much prefer him to that pretty boy of 
 yours who is helping to uphold the Union Jack at the British 
 Embassy." 
 
 Captain Tuke is not a boy. He is twenty-six. And I 
 
14 
 
 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 don't see why you should speak of him as * pretty/ He is 
 remarkably handsome. Everyone says so." 
 
 "Yes? Well, not quite everyone, since I think him 
 merely pretty ! But that is of no consequence. Mr Under- 
 wood is coming to call for you and I have something I want 
 to show you before he arrives." 
 
 She struck a silver gong and gave a brief command in 
 Russian. 
 
 A moment later two servants entered carrying a large 
 picture on an easel. The Princess indicated where it was to 
 be placed and then led Clio towards it. 
 
 An immense, panel-shaped canvas, dark, mysterious and 
 impressive. There was a midnight sky of subtle, transparent 
 blackness, pierced by a single glittering star ; and there was a 
 snow-covered plain across which streamed a confused mass of 
 humanity. 
 
 The countless figures were scarcely outlined. They seemed 
 to melt into the background, yet they conveyed an impression 
 of dogged strength held in leash. 
 
 Upward and onward they blindly forced their way — to- 
 wards the star, towards light. 
 
 In the foreground, a little removed from the surging 
 figures, there was an old Russian peasant. His knotted hands 
 were clenched over his breast, and with patient eagerness his 
 sightless eyes turned towards the star. 
 
 The picture gave an instant impression of violent emotion. 
 It seemed without colour and yet so rich in vital colour that 
 the onlooker felt confused. 
 
 Clio bent forward and eagerly examined a bold signature 
 at the right corner of the canvas. 
 
 " Miles Bering ? she said amazedly. 
 
 The Princess assented. 
 
 " Yes. The ' Russia ' of Mr Bering. The picture which 
 has been a great deal discussed in Paris. An old friend of 
 mine, a Russian, has sent it to me.'' 
 
 " It is wonderful." 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 15 
 
 There was something of awe and very much of pride in the 
 tone, and the Princess, ever a keen observer, thought, not for 
 the first time, that the impulsive little widow could be a very 
 valuable friend. With a gesture that was almost caressing she 
 laid her hand on her shoulder. 
 
 " It pleases me. We must show it to Mr Underwood. I 
 think he also is a friend of this young painter." 
 
 " Oh, yes, he knows him very well indeed and thinks no 
 end of him. He will be delighted to see the picture. He was 
 talking of it only yesterday." 
 
 At that moment a door was thrown open and a servant 
 announced Monsieur James Underwood.'' 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 THE Princess threw an amused glance at her friend's 
 flushed face as she advanced to welcome the visitor. 
 "This is charming," she said. "You enter at a critical 
 moment. We were talking about you." 
 
 The American bowed over the little jewelled hand in 
 courtly fashion and turned to greet Mrs Waring. 
 " Of me ? May I ask in what connection ? " 
 His hostess pointed to the picture. 
 
 " Mrs Waring tells me you are interested in my country ; 
 she thinks you will like to see this picture. It is the 
 ' Russia ' of Mr Bering of which you must have heard ? 
 Perhaps you have already seen it ? " 
 
 Underwood walked quickly towards the easel. 
 
 " Bering's ^ Russia M " he said eagerly. 
 
 Princess Borizoff lay back in her chair and watched 
 his face as he closely scanned the painting. She found him 
 attractive, this big, determined man, with the clean-cut features 
 of the Emperor Hadrian and the all-pervading air of 
 dominion. She had met him several times since his arrival 
 in Rome and had realized that he was a leader of men and 
 exceptionally intelligent. She felt interested in him because 
 of his qualities but still more because of his friendship with 
 Clio Waring. She was sincerely fond of Clio and she knew 
 that the Hon. Charles Waring had not been a particularly 
 successful husband. She could not countenance divorce 
 but she realized that the American would be very good to 
 a woman — if he loved her. 
 
 Underwood looked long at the picture. Then he drew 
 a deep breath. 
 
 "He is a wonderful fellow, Bering. Something of a 
 i6 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 17 
 
 genius, I believe. I am greatly interested to see this picture 
 because only this morning Dr Doyenbert was speaking to 
 me about it and expressing regret that he himself had not 
 purchased it." 
 
 "You know him well — that terrible man who takes 
 delight in dissecting our poor, over- worked nerves?" 
 
 I know him. I consider it unlikely that anyone could 
 truthfully say they knew him ' well M I met him two years 
 ago with Rodin, at Meudon, and since then he has spent 
 a month with me in the Adirondacks. He professes to be 
 grateful to me, or to the mountains, for the cure of his own 
 nerves." 
 
 The Princess looked disdainful. 
 
 "I am afraid even your beautiful mountains could not 
 cure the insatiable curiosity of a neurologist, and Dr 
 Doyenbert's nerves, if he really possesses any, are the 
 offspring of restless curiosity. He is a very intelligent man 
 and quite amusing, but if I felt my nerves out of order I 
 should not consult him. I should prefer someone less 
 brilliant and — less curious ! " 
 
 Underwood laughed. 
 
 "Yes, he is 'curious' in every sense of the word, but 
 he is a good fellow and his admiration for the talent of the 
 man who painted that picture is quite genuine. At the same 
 time he very nearly fell out with Bering about this * Russia \" 
 
 "But why? Because he sold it to someone else?" 
 
 Mrs Waring was standing by the tea-table as she spoke. 
 Underwood turned to her and as his keen grey eyes fell on the 
 radiant figure in white cloth and silken braids they grew soft 
 in expression. The Princess glanced from one to the other 
 and the ghost of a smile hovered about her mouth. 
 
 "No," he answered hesitatingly, "not because he sold 
 it but because he used the money he got for it stupidly — 
 according to Doyenbert." 
 
 "He has his little extravagances, then — this wonderful 
 young man ? It is quite refreshing to hear that he has some 
 2 
 
i8 
 
 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 human qualities : from what Mrs Waring has told me I was 
 beginning to picture him amongst the supernaturals ! " 
 
 Underwood paused. It was evident that he was debating 
 with himself. 
 
 "Please do not hesitate unless the matter is a secret. 
 I assure you I know how to appreciate the vice of extra- 
 vagance." 
 
 The American glanced round the luxurious room and 
 then let his eyes rest on the svelte figure draped in lace 
 which, even to his man's eyes, pronounced itself priceless. 
 At the moment he looked almost boyish, in spite of his 
 forty-eight years, and both the women laughed. 
 
 "You think I have spoken the simple truth — ^just once, 
 v!est-ce pas ? Well, reward my virtue : tell me about the 
 extravagance of Mr Bering?" 
 
 Underwood leaned back in his chair. He looked at the 
 picture and then at the beautiful woman who had become 
 possessed of it. At last he said : 
 
 " There is no secret in the matter, but at the same time 
 I do not feel sure that I am justified in speaking of it. 
 You do not, I think, know Dering, and for that reason you 
 will perhaps find it hard to understand. Well, the truth is 
 he gave away every penny he got for that picture to just 
 such a Russian peasant as that indicated in the foreground 
 of the painting — that old blind man. The story of the old 
 man's life was a sad one and it is not necessary to relate 
 it, but the poor old fellow's son had been mixed up in a 
 nihilist plot and was sent to Siberia. The old man was 
 left alone with a little grandchild and there were several 
 very pathetic circumstances connected with his life. 
 Mechnikoff told the story in Bering's presence, one evening, 
 in Paris, last spring, and it must have made a great im- 
 pression, for Boyenbert told me — only this morning — that 
 the money paid for * Russia' had found its way back — 
 to Russia. It came out in a roundabout way, through 
 Mechnikoff, and when Boyenbert asked Bering about it 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 19 
 
 he only smiled. The doctor is a man of sufficient courage 
 but he did not care to press the question and he was rather 
 furious. You see it was the first sum of importance Bering 
 had ever received for a picture, and — he is a very young 
 man." 
 
 Clio Waring's expression of dismay was almost comical. 
 
 " Isn't that exactly like him ? " she exclaimed impatiently. 
 " And you may be sure he was backed up by Jessica, if she 
 knew anything about it. Such dear angelic fools ! And it 
 isn't as if they had any money worth speaking of. I don't 
 suppose their uncle could have left them more than four 
 or five hundred a year between them ? " 
 
 ''Five— I think." 
 
 Underwood spoke rather sharply. He had been watching 
 the face of the Princess and its appearance of calm indifference 
 irritated him. Her eyes were hidden behind drooping fringes 
 of dark lashes and, so far as he could see, she had not been 
 moved, except to careless amusement, by the little story 
 which had seemed to him so fine. He rose and again 
 approached the picture. Princess Borizoff looked up. 
 
 " Is this young man a Socialist, with nihilistic sympathies ? " 
 
 ''Nihilistic? Oh, no — not that, but he certainly has 
 in him the makings of a reformer. He could hardly avoid 
 that considering his upbringing." 
 
 "Do the 17th Lancers cultivate Socialism, then?" 
 
 The tone was so mischievous that Mrs Waring bit her 
 lip in vexation. There were moments when she found it 
 difficult to be patient with her friend. She turned to the 
 American, whose face expressed surprise. 
 
 "Madame Borizoff was afraid Miles Bering was a pro- 
 nounced Quartier Latin type, and she had a crise de nerh 
 when she realized that he might present himself before her 
 in a low neck and big tie — at the Costanzi to-night ! To 
 reassure her I trotted out the possibilities of heredity in 
 mentioning his father." 
 
 "I see." Underwood smiled as he spoke. "Well, I do 
 
20 
 
 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 not think Colonel Bering can be held directly responsible for 
 his son^s ideas, sartorial or otherwise. He died when the boy 
 was a mere child and Mrs Bering did not long survive him, 
 Miles and Jessica were brought up by their uncle — my old 
 friend, John Fitzgerald. I fancy Fitzgerald had a horror of 
 his brother-in-law for he always spoke of him as a betrayer of 
 his country. Colonel Bering was a Protestant, and, I should 
 say, very bigoted, while Fitzgerald was a Catholic of the fine 
 old Irish type. He hated the English and never forgave his 
 sister for marrying a man, who, Irish by birth, was entirely 
 English in sympathies." 
 
 And this uncle was your intimate friend? Bid he then 
 live in America ? " The Princess seemed interested at last. 
 
 " He spent many years in the States but towards the end 
 of his life made his home in Paris. He was a remarkable 
 man : one of the most enthusiastic upholders of the Brook 
 Farm theories. Indeed, I believe that, very many years ago, 
 he and Emerson nearly fell out on that subject. Fitzgerald 
 looked up to Emerson almost as if he were a Bivine being, 
 but he never forgave him for poking fun at the Brook Farm 
 community. As a matter of fact I do not believe Emerson 
 did poke fun at those dear devoted people, but when Jack 
 Fitzgerald took hold of an idea he worked it to death, and 
 he had all his countrymen's horror of anything like personal 
 ridicule." 
 
 But what on earth is Brook Farm ? And surely Emerson, 
 I suppose you mean the Emerson, lived ages ago ? 
 Underwood laughed outright. 
 
 "Ages ago — as you count ages, Mrs Waring: and the 
 Brook Farm community broke up long before you were born 
 or thought of. Bid you never hear of it— really? Of that 
 ideal home of a brotherhood dedicated to plain living and 
 high thinking ? Why, Nathaniel Hawthorne worked there as 
 a farm labourer : Charley Bana, who afterwards edited the 
 New York Sun, waited at the dinner-table : Father Thomas 
 Hecker, the founder of the Paulist Order, baked bread, and 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 21 
 
 George Curtis chopped faggots. It was a wonderful community, 
 I can tell you, and when Jack Fitzgerald, then a very young 
 man, joined it, he was bubbling over with enthusiasm. In 
 fact he remained an enthusiast to his last day, and not long 
 before his death he spoke to me of the aims and ambitions of 
 the original Brook Farmers. 'We were banded together,' he 
 said, ' in order more effectually to promote the great purposes 
 of human culture. To establish the external relations of life 
 on a basis of wisdom and purity. To apply the principles of 
 justice and love to our social organization in accordance with 
 the laws of Divine Providence.' He said much more but I 
 have forgotten the words, though the sense remains with me. 
 It was a great ideal and Emerson was in sympathy with it, 
 even though he so hopelessly offended Fitzgerald by his sly 
 hits at some of the members. Fitzgerald died in full faith of 
 the ideal, and Nathaniel Hawthorne thought so highly of the 
 scheme that he made it the heart of his Blithedale Romance, 
 Long after Brook Farm was deserted and the community 
 scattered to the four quarters of the earth, Hawthorne one day 
 said to a friend — 'The more I think of it the more convinced 
 do I become that at Brook Farm we were in touch with truth. 
 We have, some of us, let it go by, but posterity may dig it up 
 and profit by it.' " 
 
 The Princess was looking puzzled. 
 
 **But when you speak of Hawthorne, do you mean the 
 man who wrote the Scarlet Letter 1 Do you mean that he 
 actually worked in the fields as a labourer?" 
 
 " Yes, indeed. Princess — as an ordinary labourer. Every 
 member had certain work portioned out to him and it had 
 to be well done. Hawthorne was devoted to the farm and I 
 believe the happiest days of his life were passed there. It 
 was a tremendously jovial community and one of its most 
 interesting members was Dering's uncle. Fitzgerald was crazy 
 on the subject of education, mental and physical, and he was 
 the Maitre d^Armes of the farm. In after years he gave free 
 rein to his fads when young Dering came under his care. He 
 
22 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 brought him up as a true son of the community and I have 
 often thought that one of the most interesting mementoes the 
 world now possesses of the famous 'plain living and high 
 thinking ' scheme is — Miles Bering ! " 
 
 He must be interesting — this painter. I have just asked 
 Mrs Waring to let him know that I shall be glad to see him 
 in my loge at the Costanzi to-night. You are coming — 
 of course? You have not forgotten that I have invited 
 you to see Duse?" Underwood shook his head very 
 decidedly. 
 
 *'You may be sure I have not forgotten. I am looking 
 forward with keen pleasure to this evening. I should enjoy 
 visiting your loge in any circumstances, but it so happens that 
 I have never seen Gioconda^ and of course with Eleonora 
 Duse it will be at its best." 
 
 Just then Mrs Waring again glanced at her watch : she 
 uttered a little cry of surprise. 
 
 *'How late it is! and I have fifty things to do before 
 dinner ! " 
 
 She caught up her hat and hastily crossed the room. 
 Underwood's eyes looked admiringly at the radiant figure as 
 he held the door open for her to pass out. Then he came 
 back and joined his hostess who was now standing by an open 
 French window. 
 
 ''You have a lovely home here, Princess," he said. 
 "Though the Villa Borizoff is not one of the regular show 
 places I think it is more talked about than any of the famous 
 villas or Palazzos of Rome. One day, perhaps, I shall ask you 
 to let me see the marble loggia which I understand you have 
 erected ? I have heard a great deal about it and Mrs Waring 
 tells me that just now it is a marvel of beauty, with roses 
 climbing round the pillars." 
 
 Gabrielle Borizoff assented with a charming smile, but 
 her thoughts seemed occupied. For some moments she was 
 silent ; then she said : 
 
 " What effect, generally speaking, has that curious bringing- 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 23 
 
 up had upon Mr Bering ? I should like to know a little more 
 about him, if the subject does not bore you ? " 
 
 "Quite the contrary." Underwood spoke with decision 
 and his stern face grew wonderfully kindly. "I like Miles 
 Bering very much and I find him interesting, but it would not 
 be easy to give you any idea, in a few words, of the effect of 
 his uncle's method of education. To understand Bering you 
 ought to have known the uncle and you could never have 
 understood the uncle unless you knew a good deal about the 
 Irish people. Jack Fitzgerald was one of the best fellows that 
 ever lived, but undoubtedly, from a worldly point of view, he 
 was a crank ; and he brought the lad up with the views of a 
 crank. That is to say, with views that do not belong to this 
 work-a day world. Added to this, Bering is something of a 
 genius. Given his upbringing and his exceptional talent it is 
 not surprising that he should be out of the ordinary." 
 But in what way — especially? " 
 "Well, he is a man whose thoughts do not travel on 
 ordinary lines. He is tremendously straight himself and he 
 cannot realize, unless absolutely forced to do so, that other 
 people are sometimes crooked. Big things, big sacrifices, 
 big ideals, seem so natural to him that he does not understand 
 the little meannesses of life. I suppose the fact of the matter 
 is he is exceptionally natural, in the finest sense of the word, 
 and that we of the world are so naturally unnatural that he 
 seems eccentric ! He studied under Carriere and was his 
 chosen friend, so far as a mere lad could be the friend of such 
 an extraordinary genius, and that explains a good deal, if you 
 happen to know anything of Carriere's life and work?" 
 The Princess bent her head in silent assent. 
 For quite a long time the two remained silent and Under- 
 wood's keen eyes took in, with appreciation, the broad terraces 
 and sloping alleys, bordered with laurels and with spindle 
 trees, which led down to the orange grove and rose gardens. 
 
 More than one wealthy American had spent huge sums in an 
 attempt to reproduce the marble fountains of the lower terrace, 
 
24 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 with their great banks of mantling ivy and their background 
 of parasol pines and spreading trees of red-gold oranges and 
 oval lemons of pale gold. 
 
 It was an enchanted spot and the beautiful woman in the 
 clinging draperies of soft laces seemed to belong to it — as by 
 divine right. Underwood looked at her stealthily as she 
 remained lost in thought. He considered her one of the most 
 lovely women he had ever seen, but her beauty had not the 
 power to stir his pulses. He admired her as one might 
 admire an exquisite statue, but his heart throbbed suddenly 
 and a tremor passed through the nerves of his strong white 
 hands as a faint scent of violets and tea-roses filled the air 
 and a rustle of silken linings proclaimed the return of Clio 
 Waring. 
 
 The woman of the caressing brown eyes and haunting 
 little ways had crept into the secret chambers of his heart and 
 had taken possession. 
 
 At first, but that was many months ago, he had been 
 merely amused and interested by her brilliant chatter. Then 
 he had found himself missing her, more than he cared to 
 realize. And then the certainty that he loved her had come 
 as something of a shock. He was a man who had always 
 given high rank to honour. He was no longer young and he 
 was married. It was true that his wife did not care for him 
 at all, that she was unfaithful, but still he had married her 
 and he had, more than once, and in public, spoken strongly 
 against the divorce laws of his country. It was, he told him- 
 self, true that circumstances sometimes altered cases, but 
 principle is principle. In his heart he found reason to 
 believe that he might, perhaps, be able to overcome the 
 impulsive little Irishwoman's religious scruples on the subject. 
 She had, it was true, been brought up a Catholic, but her 
 mother had remained to the last a Protestant of narrow 
 views, and Clio did not take her religious duties very 
 seriously. 
 
 Underwood was a practical hard-headed man, but of 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 25 
 
 recent days he had permitted himself to drift, and, at times, 
 to dream. 
 
 He loved Rome — that grand old City which had so richly- 
 coloured history. And how great was the pleasure he ex- 
 perienced in wandering here and there with the woman he had 
 learned to love. How delicious the mornings passed in picture 
 galleries, historic churches or romantic, half-deserted gardens ? 
 
 He had never spoken to Clio of his love, and so long as he 
 could remain silent the position seemed possible. 
 
 After all, a golden month stolen from the grasp of Time 
 was a treasure of price. He was happy in the immediate 
 moment, and in his strenuous life happiness, of this kind, 
 had not often fallen to his lot. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 HE scene at the Teatro Costanzi was very brilliant. It 
 
 X was a gala performance for the victims of a recent 
 earthquake and Duse was playing in the Gioconda I 
 
 The boxes were filled with beautiful women famous in 
 Roman society, and in the stalls there were all sorts and 
 conditions of men and women of varied nationalities. 
 
 The dresses were exquisite, the show of jewels exceptionally 
 fine, and the air of the theatre seemed charged with magnet- 
 ism. The Italians, especially the Romans, scorn the idea of 
 going to bed before the early hours of the morning, and lest 
 the curtain should fall too early on the final act of a play, 
 they have inaugurated a system of abnormally protracted 
 entr'actes^ during which they pay lengthy visits to the boxes 
 of their friends. At the Opera and at such theatres as the 
 Costanzi, regular receptions are held in the different boxes 
 between the acts. 
 
 When Princess Borizoft entered with Mrs Waring every 
 head was turned towards her loge for she was the most talked 
 about woman in Rome that season : envied, admired and 
 very generally feared. 
 
 For a moment or two she stood in front of the box and 
 surveyed the house, supremely indifferent to the many opera- 
 glasses directed towards her. She was wearing a gown of 
 silken muslins, in tones of flesh-pink, ivory and silver; 
 mysterious as the seven veils which cover the soul. The 
 fragile stuffs were weighed down by crystal fringes and 
 embroideries and, quivering at her breast, there was a great 
 butterfly of silver filigree thickly incrusted with diamonds. 
 Two ropes of pearls encircled her throat and fell far below 
 her waist, and her dark hair was carelessly wound round her 
 classic head. 
 
 26 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 27 
 
 A sound of voices made her turn towards the back of the 
 box and she sank into her seat as Underwood came forward 
 and presented a tall, dark man. 
 
 " Mr Bering ? " she said, as she extended her hand. I 
 am pleased to meet you." 
 
 Miles Bering bent low and kissed the slender hand, gloved 
 in ivory suede, and as he did so the Princess looked up and 
 encountered a mocking glance from Mrs Waring. She smiled 
 and her lips formed rather than uttered the words mea 
 culpa." 
 
 The well-groomed man with the courtly manner was far 
 removed from the Quartier Latin type she had suggested. 
 
 Mrs Waring looked triumphant, but at that moment the 
 curtain went up and all eyes were turned towards the 
 stage. 
 
 Gabrielle Borizoff was a warm admirer of Eleonora Buse, 
 and for the subtleties of d'Annunzio she felt keen apprecia- 
 tion ; but she had seen the play many times and more than 
 once, during the first act, she permitted her attention to 
 wander towards the young painter. He was unexpected and 
 therefore interesting. 
 
 Opinions differed with regard to Miles Bering's appearance. 
 
 Some people considered him very handsome : others were 
 content to pronounce him distinguished : Englishmen, as a 
 rule, dubbed him foreign looking. 
 
 He was tall and slightly built and his easy movements 
 betrayed the athlete just as his unconscious play of the wrist 
 betrayed the practised swordsman. His hair was dark brown, 
 with a slight wave at the temples, and his finely-chiselled 
 features were bronzed as those of a southern Italian. Indeed 
 in type he was almost Roman : he might have been the son, 
 or brother, of some of the dark-haired men thronging the 
 boxes. 
 
 He had good features and a particularly well -shaped 
 mouth, but in describing him most people spoke first of his 
 eyes which were very dark and framed in level brows. They 
 
28 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 were handsome eyes so far as shape and colour were concerned, 
 but what made them remarkable was their expression. 
 
 Without staring, Bering had a way of looking at people as 
 though he were reading their thoughts. 
 
 A great French philosopher once said of him — " // voit le 
 nu du caractere comme celui des corps and it was true. 
 
 People found the painter's eyes attractive or disconcerting, 
 according to circumstances, and once, when their quiet glance 
 swept her face and figure, the Princess felt puzzled : was their 
 expression insolent or contemplative or — politely indifferent ? 
 
 She turned her attention to the stage but a slight move- 
 ment made her look up and she saw that Bering had risen to 
 salute someone on the other side of the theatre. Almost 
 unconsciously she followed in the track of his eyes. Three 
 persons had just entered a box and two of them she knew to 
 be the Comtesse de Brissac and Prince Platoff : the third was a 
 girl of such remarkable appearance that she found her attention 
 riveted. It was not so much the beauty of feature that 
 attracted her, though that was present in a marked degree, but 
 there was something about the girl's whole personality that set 
 her apart. She was like an exotic plant which had taken root, 
 with a good will, in English soil but which, nevertheless, 
 remained mysterious and illusive. The type was English and 
 yet — in some subtle way the girl recalled the land of the 
 pomegranate : she had the traditional complexion of cream 
 and roses, but her lips were softly crimson as the heart of a 
 poinsettia, and her hair, a pale, gold frame for a broad and very 
 white forehead, gave out metallic gleams in certain lights. 
 
 Gabrielle Borizoff was a genuine admirer of beauty, and her 
 own unquestioned sovereignty raised her above the level of 
 petty disparagements, but the thought flashed across her mind 
 that the girl's strange beauty owed something to art ! A 
 moment later she withdrew the mental accusation, her keen 
 eyes recognizing that it was Nature : Nature in the guise of a 
 subtle orchid but none the less Nature. 
 
 The play had ceased to interest her and unconsciously she 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 continued to look at the face of the girl in the opposite box : 
 and as she looked Violet Hilliard's eyes met hers in a full and, 
 so it seemed, resentful gaze. 
 
 The girl was dressed in white : draperies of ivory crepe 
 wound themselves about the slender form which still possessed 
 something of the pathetic grace of adolescence. She was very 
 tall, with the willowy grace of a youth wedded to the soft 
 roundness of a feminine thing. Her eyes, far apart and violet 
 in colour, seemed, in joyous moods, like summer stars, full of 
 delicious light. The cream of her skin melted into pale rose 
 over the delicately-rounded cheeks and grew snow-white at 
 the beautiful throat, flat as that of a young child, and in shape 
 a most dainty column. Her eyelashes and brows were dark 
 and it was these in conjunction with the pale, gold hair that 
 gave the instant impression of artifice. She was, perhaps, 
 twenty-two : possibly twenty-four. It was difficult to decide 
 definitely. 
 
 When the Princess recognized the vague resentment in the 
 girl's look she smiled slightly and turned towards Bering. At 
 the same moment the man in the opposite box spoke and the 
 girl threw back her head and laughed. Someone in the 
 audience gave an indignant "sh-sh-sh — It was a 
 miniature comedy and Gabrielle was almost surprised to find 
 that Bering's face was absolutely calm. He was watching the 
 stage attentively, but when the curtain fell he turned at once 
 to his hostess. 
 
 " You are a great admirer of d'Annunzio, Madame ? '' 
 he asked. 
 
 "Yes — and no. He is a master of words and he has 
 revived the glories of the Italian language, but I find it difficult 
 to forgive him // Fuoco. It was so needlessly cruel." 
 
 " Perhaps ? But it is his masterpiece." 
 
 Mrs Waring and Underwood were talking at the back of 
 the box and the Princess felt, for the moment, alone with the 
 painter. A sudden impulse made her break the ice and plunge 
 into something like intimacy. 
 
30 
 
 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 " I am surprised ! Mrs Waring has spoken to me of you. 
 I did not expect you to sympathize with d'Annunzio's treat- 
 ment of love.'' She laid a slight stress on the personal 
 pronoun and Bering looked at her questioningly. 
 
 " * Love ' ? But he doesn't treat of it. I believe he knows 
 nothing about it." 
 
 " D'Annunzio ? " 
 
 Bering nodded. 
 
 " Nothing ! " 
 
 There was a pause. Then the woman laughed softly. 
 
 "I wish he could hear you. You deny him knowledge 
 of the emotion of which he is high priest and autocratic 
 guardian ? The emotion he has dissected and discussed and 
 explained over and over again. If he does not under- 
 stand love, where can we seek for the source of his 
 inspiration ? " 
 
 You are of opinion that * I love ' and ^Je suis amoroureux ' 
 are synonymous phrases ? " 
 
 Perhaps not — quite." The Princess laughed again. 
 **But— ?" 
 
 Just that, I assure you. The high priest of Amour asks 
 *What can I receive? What fresh sensation can I ex- 
 perience ? What can I take ? ' Love simply asks ^ what can 
 I give?'" 
 
 " But not always ? " 
 
 '^Always!" 
 
 The dark eyes met and crossed foils. The woman was 
 smiHng a little cynically; the man was also smiling, but it 
 would have been difficult to read his thoughts. At that 
 moment Mrs Waring made a diversion. 
 
 "Gabrielle — Mr Underwood refuses to believe that you 
 ridicule the idea of happy marriages." 
 
 The American came to the front of the box. 
 
 only said that I felt sure you would agree with me 
 in thinking the holy estate of matrimony an excellent 
 institution." 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 31 
 
 " Most excellent. The best of all institutions for keeping 
 two persons from caring too much for each other." 
 
 " Is not that rather an original notion? " 
 
 " A sensible one, I think. It is fatal to idealize." 
 
 Dering laughed right out and at the moment the Princess 
 became conscious that he was very young for his years. The 
 laugh was fresh and spontaneous. Underwood rested his 
 hand on the painter's shoulder and looked down at the dark 
 face. 
 
 " Here is a fellow who believes in ideals if ever anyone 
 did. Come now, Dering, have you nothing to say in support 
 of my theory that marriage is really an excellent institution, 
 when the right halves join hands." 
 
 " You want me to war with the air ! Your theory stands 
 untouched : we are all of the same mind." 
 
 "Not the Princess, I fear?" 
 
 **0h, yes. Madame Borizoff is entirely on your side, only 
 in her case there might be some difficulty about recognition 
 on the part of the right halves. When people elect to wear 
 masks confusion becomes general." 
 
 You think I elect to wear masks?" 
 
 The question was asked with some hauteur and Clio 
 looked apprehensive. 
 
 Dering smiled. 
 
 **Most women of the world wear them, and beautiful 
 masks are admirable in their way only — they are apt to cause 
 confusion. For example, one of your masks has given Mrs 
 Waring the impression that you do not believe in happy 
 marriages." 
 
 You heard what I said on that subject? " 
 
 *'Yes. I heard what you said and I might have been 
 confused if I had not used my eyes." 
 
 " I do not understand." 
 
 As she spoke the Princess unconsciously threw out her 
 right hand from which she had drawn a glove. Dering looked 
 at the delicate fingers significantly. 
 
32 
 
 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 " Your mask derides ideals and yet — you are an idealist. 
 Yes" — in answer to a negative movement — essentially and 
 above all, an idealist." 
 
 "You are skilled in character reading?" 
 
 The mockery of the tone missed its goal. Bering was 
 unmoved. 
 
 "Not at all. But I know something of the laws that 
 govern the hand." 
 
 His glance was so significant that the Princess held up 
 her ungloved hand and the others crowded round. 
 
 "You think I have the hands of an idealist?" 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 "That, in addition to many other things but that, of a 
 certainty." 
 
 Clio laughed gaily. 
 
 "You are found out at last, Gabrielle. You — the concen- 
 trated essence of all things cynical and critical and analytical 
 and all the sister cals ! An idealist ! Who would have 
 thought it ? " 
 
 The Princess took no notice of the mild banter : she was 
 looking at her hand with some curiosity. 
 " You really believe in palmistry ? " 
 
 She looked at the painter as she asked the question and 
 he smiled. 
 
 "I don't know anything about it. I only know that 
 certain types of hands indicate the presence of certain qualities 
 and certain other types certain other qualities. That much 
 cannot be denied." 
 
 " And from my hands you judge me to be an idealist ? " 
 
 "Amongst other things." 
 
 "What else do you see here?" 
 
 She held the lovely ungloved hands towards him with an 
 imperious gesture of command. The ghost of a smile crept 
 into the corners of the painter's mouth. 
 
 "I wonder if you ever find it possible to be * needlessly 
 cruel'?" 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 33 
 
 A faint flush suddenly rose to the proud face and the 
 white hand was withdrawn. Mrs Waring laughed but 
 Underwood judged it best to break in. 
 
 *^The great actress we have here to-night is said to have 
 remarkably beautiful hands — is she not? Have you ever 
 met her, Bering ? It would be interesting to hear what you 
 think of those hands ? " 
 
 "Yes, I have met her. Her hands are beautiful but 
 terribly sad: the saddest hands I've seen, I think, and the 
 most tragic. You remember that they are really the heroines 
 of this piece? It was written for Duse and the moment is 
 very fine when poor Silvia, who has lost her hands in saving 
 her husband's masterpiece, stretches out her mutilated wrists 
 in impotent desire to embrace the child." 
 
 The American assented. Just then Princess Borizoff bent 
 her head slightly in answer to the profound salutation of a 
 man who was standing at the front of the opposite box. She 
 turned to Mrs Waring. 
 
 "Serge Platoff has been waiting for permission to come 
 over." Then, driven by some indefinite sense of irritation, 
 she glanced at the painter. 
 
 "Do you know Prince Platoff? He out-rivals the late 
 Prince de Chic as a patron of the arts. I will present you. 
 One never knows : he might prove useful." 
 
 The tone was distinctly patronizing and Bering's face 
 grew stern. He rose from his seat and stood erect, his dark 
 eyes looking straight into the smiling and rather insolent 
 face of his hostess. 
 
 "You are very kind; but I must ask you to excuse me. 
 I have no desire to make Prince PlatofFs acquaintance." 
 
 The reply was given without emotion and the manner 
 in which it was spoken was very courteous, but something in 
 the level tones brought a flush of anger to the ivory cheeks 
 of the Princess. She threw up her head haughtily and as 
 the Russian Prince entered she waved the painter aside. He 
 bowed and quietly left the box with Underwood. As they 
 3 
 
34 
 
 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 passed the visitor Bering continued his way as if no one was 
 there, and the Russian had to make way. He glanced after 
 the two men and then came forward and kissed the hands 
 of both women with great empresse7nent. 
 
 This occasion is unique ! It has become possible for 
 me to believe — almost to believe — that you are not quite 
 perfect, Madame Gabrielle ! I am confused and completely 
 disorganized by the idea, yet I think — at least I fear — that 
 you are too good-natured." 
 
 As he spoke he sank back in a chair with an air of nervous 
 exhaustion : he was an inimitable actor and his expression of 
 pretended horror was very amusing. 
 
 Platoff was a remarkable-looking man who attracted 
 attention everywhere he went. Of moderate height, his figure 
 was slim and graceful, and his iron-grey hair was worn in the 
 style affected by the late Prince de Sagan, whose mantle 
 he was supposed to have adopted. His features were small 
 and well-shaped, but the habitual expression of his face and 
 eyes was so cynical and insolent that one hesitated to call 
 him attractive. He was immensely rich, absolutely selfish, 
 notably unscrupulous, and most women considered his manner 
 fascinating. Princess Borizoff found him amusing and for 
 that reason he was frequently at her houses : the fact that 
 he had been the relative and intimate friend of her husband 
 did not influence her at all. 
 
 "You think I am too good-natured? I seem to be the 
 centre of discoveries this evening. Only a moment ago I was 
 told that I had the hands of a cruel idealist." 
 
 "Gabrielle!" 
 
 Clio's face expressed indignation but her friend paid no 
 attention. Platoff rearranged his eyeglass, which was attached 
 to a narrow ribbon of black-watered silk, and his dark brows 
 assumed a satirical curve. 
 
 " I need not ask the name of the individual who invented 
 that distinctly precious epithet ; it is typical of the man ! ' A 
 cruel idealist ? ' Is it not beautifully meaningless and mean- 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 35 
 
 inglessly mysterious — ^just as are his paintings ? Just the sort 
 of thing to make the masses gasp and ask, *What does it 
 mean ? ' And who is likely to take the trouble to tell them 
 that it means — ^just nothing?" 
 
 " But Mr Dering never said such a thing. Gabrielle, 
 you know quite well what he said. It was nothing like 
 that." 
 
 Platoff turned a comprehensive glance on the animated 
 speaker, and as his impertinent eyes wandered slowly from 
 her flushed face to her white throat and down, very slowly, to 
 the cluster of violets at her breast, Clio realized what Fenton 
 Tuke had meant when he once said, with boyish vigour—'* I 
 never see that Russian chap looking at a woman without 
 wanting to kick him." She drew herself up proudly and 
 looked straight across the theatre. Platoff smiled slightly as 
 he caressed his drooping moustache. 
 
 " Chere Madame^ I am almost sure the young man must 
 have said it — or something very like it. It is so entirely what 
 one would expect from him. In his * art ' and in his life he 
 is such a terrible poseur, 
 
 Princess Borizoff had been watching Clio's indignant face 
 with unconcealed amusement; she was in a mood to take 
 pleasure in seeing anyone, even an intimate friend, discon- 
 certed. She motioned to Platoff to draw her gorgeous wrap 
 of velvet and sable round her shoulders, and she smiled at him 
 as she leaned back. 
 
 You accuse me of unnecessary good-nature. Why?" 
 
 "Because you have permitted that ridiculous charlatan 
 Dering to advertise himself in your loge. You are exquisitely 
 considerate to persons of his class, I know, but most of these 
 fellows know their place, and keep it more or less. It was a 
 dangerous experiment to admit this man into your presence, 
 except as a tradesman ; it would not be an agreeable experi- 
 ence for you to have to give him a lesson in good manners. 
 
 Clio's temper broke bounds. 
 
 "Prince Platoff, will you please remember that Mr 
 
36 
 
 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 Dering is a personal friend of mine, and one for whom I have 
 the greatest admiration and regard." 
 
 Platoff allowed some germs of admiration to show them- 
 selves in his brilliant eyes. She certainly was pretty — this 
 little woman who had so often gone out of her way to be 
 disagreeable to him. He bowed low as if in deep humiliation. 
 
 " A thousand pardons — I had no idea that was the case. 
 I retract, inwardly devour, every word I have spoken. Doubt- 
 less, he is in every respect admirable, this young painter ; one 
 cannot place confidence in what one^s friends say about a man 
 in his position. At the clubs they seem to think him rather a 
 farceur, but then the fellows have only seen him in the studios, 
 or the streets, or places of that kind. It is certainly unfair to 
 form an opinion of anyone whom one cannot hope to know 
 intimately.'' 
 
 The scarcely-veiled insolence of the tone caught the atten- 
 tion of the Princess. She had no more consideration for 
 Platoff s feelings than for those of a stranger. 
 
 " You speak bitterly. I wonder why ? " The words dropped 
 slowly from the exquisite lips, but the satirical expression in 
 the dark eyes made the man feel uncomfortable. "You 
 consider Mr Dering a complete outsider, and he refuses to 
 have you presented to him. It all savours of mystery and 
 romance. I wonder very much what is behind ? 
 He refused to be presented to me ? " 
 Worse than that. He refused to permit me to present 
 you to him ! " 
 
 Platoff had in his veins the blood of men who had ruled 
 autocratically. He was one of the proudest men in Europe, 
 and at that moment he could have killed the painter. He 
 hesitated ; then a slow, malicious smile curled his thin lips. 
 
 " I am honoured I After all, this young man possesses 
 some fine feeling. He must know that a great many curious 
 things are accepted in this strange old world of ours, but 
 perhaps he has learned that there are still some things which 
 place a man on the outer edge — when they become known.'' 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 37 
 
 Both women looked at him in surprise and on Mrs 
 Waring's face the surprise was mingled with indignation. 
 Princess Borizoff spoke. 
 
 " You know of something in connection with Mr Bering 
 which necessarily places him * on the outer edge ' ? ^' 
 
 Platoflf shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " * Necessarily ' ? That depends upon circumstances and — ■ 
 persons. For myself, I frankly confess that I should not care 
 about knowing, except in the way of business, the unacknow- 
 ledged son of Dr Doyenbert, I may be absurdly old-fashioned 
 but the fact remains — I have that feeling/' 
 
 Monsieur, how dare you say such a thing! It is 
 absolutely untrue. Mr Bering's father was Colonel of the 
 17th Lancers; he was a very well-known man in Ireland and 
 a personal friend of the King." 
 
 Clio's sensitive face was aflame and she looked towards 
 her friend for confirmation. ** Gabrielle, you will not permit 
 such a thing to be said ? You know it is untrue." 
 
 Ma cherie^ I know nothing about this young man except 
 that he seems rather impertinent and — but this I consider the 
 fault of his friends — tiresome." 
 
 Platoff smiled slightly. Then he turned to Mrs 
 Waring. 
 
 " Madame, I am desolate ! I have offended you again. 
 And really I thought everyone knew. Of course, the young 
 man cannot be held responsible for — a little indiscretion, and 
 I have heard my friend, Sir Weston Hilliard, say that Colonel 
 Bering never disclaimed his son. I regret, more than I can 
 express, my own indiscretion in having mentioned the matter ; 
 I prostrate myself at your feet in an agony of humiliation and 
 beg for permission to remove my objectionable person. One 
 looks for miracles when angels are present but even though, 
 by reason of miracle, you ever find it possible to forgive me I 
 shall never forgive myself." 
 
 He rose to his feet and bowed low over the hand of the 
 Princess ; when he turned to Mrs Waring she kept her hands 
 
38 
 
 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 clasped together and slightly bent her head. The Princess 
 looked up as he turned to leave the box. 
 
 " ' Hilliard ' ? Is not that the name of the jeune fille who 
 is being introduced into Society this season by Madame de 
 Brissac? " 
 
 "Yes. Weston Hilliard is her father. I used to know 
 him years ago when, for my sins, I represented my country in 
 London. A capital fellow : very amusing for an Englishman.'' 
 
 Neither woman spoke for several moments but, just 
 before the curtain rose, Gabrielle said : 
 
 " Of course all this is, most probably, du pottn, but at the 
 same time the fact that such reports exist places me in rather 
 an unpleasant position, You remember that this is Felipe's 
 fite day and that we have promised Bianca to take supper 
 with them to-night? I had thought of taking Mr Underwood 
 and Mr Bering, but now — " 
 
 "Yes? Now—?" 
 
 There was something distinctly antagonistic in the tone 
 and the Princess looked annoyed. 
 
 "Really, Clio, you are making yourself ridiculous over 
 this painter. What is he? Who is he? No one knows. 
 Doyenbert has pushed him to the front, that is certain, and 
 it is quite likely that Serge Platoffs story has foundation. It 
 is a matter of no consequence, but I do not care to personally 
 introduce anyone — whom I do not really know." 
 
 The lame ending to the sentence was a tribute to Clio's 
 look of open amusement. 
 
 "You may remain calm," she said sententiously. "You 
 will not have to make yourself responsible for either Mr 
 Underwood or Mr Bering. They have already been invited 
 by the dear old Cardinal. I think you will find that Miles 
 Bering is quite at home at the Palazzo della Rocca : he dined 
 there twice last week." 
 
 Princess Borizoff turned away without replying. She was 
 conscious of feeling displeasure which she did not take the 
 trouble to justify. 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 When Underwood and Bering returned to the box she 
 greeted them courteously, but it was plain she did not wish to 
 talk. Even when the piece was ended she only permitted 
 herself a few cold words in which to explain that they would 
 all probably meet at the house of the Duchessa della Rocca. 
 Underwood was at her side as she made a sort of royal 
 progress from the theatre, with friends and acquaintances on 
 every side eager to attract her attention. She was looking 
 superbly handsome and as she passed along, slowly and with 
 the languid grace that became her so well, a woman's voice, 
 clear and mocking, cut the air : 
 
 " Quite an uncrowned Queen — liest-ce pas ? " 
 
 The Princess turned and looked at the speaker and at 
 the same moment Platoff, who was in the group, made a 
 profound salutation. She smiled slightly and as her eyes 
 wandered carelessly to the tall girl standing by his side she 
 was again conscious of a certain resentment in the expression 
 of the lovely, wide-apart eyes. Her smile faded as she 
 acknowledged the salutation of the Comtesse de Brissac, a 
 little further on, and then she turned and addressed a few 
 words to the American at her side. 
 
 As Gabrielle Borizoff and Clio Waring drove from the 
 theatre to the Palazzo della "Rocca they were very silent. 
 Clio was feeling angry and not a little indignant; she did 
 not understand her friend's mood. Just as the carriage was 
 turning into the street in which the della Rocca house was 
 situated, she said abruptly : 
 
 *' Gabrielle — I want to tell you something. Of course 
 I understand that you're not interested in Miles Bering, but 
 at the same time it's only fair that you should know that he 
 has made an enemy of Prince Platoff by an action which 
 certainly tells in his favour. You know the pretty singer 
 Cantalli ? Well, Platoff admired her enormously and wanted 
 to back her up, and all that. The girl was poor and there's 
 no knowing what might have happened if Jessica Bering 
 hadn't interfered. She's at the head of some society in Paris 
 
40 
 
 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 which goes in for helping young artists in all sorts of ways, 
 and besides the Derings knew Nina Cantalli's father. At any 
 rate they got hold of the girl and did no end for her and of 
 course Platoff was left out in the cold. I fancy he and Miles 
 Bering had a regular row on the subject and ever since then 
 theyVe hated each other. As you saw to-night Platoff never 
 misses an opportunity of doing the other an injury." 
 
 The Princess looked at the speaker and smiled ; the smile 
 was not a pleasant one. 
 
 "I wish I had your capability for taking an interest 
 n real-life romances ! To you this young man seems so 
 wonderful, so brave ! A beautiful singer, a wicked Russian 
 Prince, a noble young man who goes about doing good, a 
 convenient sister, a charitable society ! Pure romance. It 
 is all very wonderful but sad to say, not a little tiresome. 
 And besides — it is so difficult to believe in philanthropy of 
 that order." 
 
 " Gabrielle ! " Mrs Waring's voice shook with indignation 
 and she stopped short to recover self-control. Then she 
 went on. **Very well, let us drop the subject. I shall not 
 speak of Miles Bering again." 
 
 Deo gratias ! I think one would have found the 
 Archangel Gabriel tiresome if he had had such advocates as 
 you and Mr Underwood ! " 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 A THOUGHTFUL student can read history in the 
 famous Palazzos of Rome. Not alone in the archi- 
 tecture and mural decorations, but in the intricate, present- 
 day parcelling out of rooms and floors and, in some cases, 
 whole palaces. 
 
 In these superb buildings, many of which cover as much 
 ground as the Royal Palaces of London and Madrid, one finds 
 the true spirit of the Eternal City. Ever since the days of 
 Nero and the Golden House, the Romans have been inspired 
 by a love of grandeur and regal magnificence. They have, 
 when possible, done everything on a gigantic scale. In days 
 gone by the great Palazzos were the homes of Princes of Royal 
 blood and Princes of the Church. Many of them bear the 
 names of Popes who have written their names large across the 
 pages of history — Paulus V. was a Borghese, Leo X. and 
 Leo XI. belonged to the house of Medici, Paulus III. to that 
 of Farnese, Urbanus VIII. to that of Barberini, and so on. 
 
 One and all the Palazzos are historic, but with Rome of 
 to-day they have little connection, except financially, for one 
 might count upon the fingers of one hand the names of the 
 great families who can afford to occupy the whole of their 
 family mansions. It is sad but inevitable. In the present 
 state of Roman history and Roman life, when a blast of ruin 
 has swept over the patriziato^ what could be done with those 
 grandiose galleries and noble halls? Very few indeed of 
 the Italian nobility of to-day possess the princely fortunes 
 necessary for the upkeep of such establishments. A craze 
 for speculation, in many guises, has eaten up the remnants 
 of those fortunes which survived the devastations of enormous 
 and unjust taxation. When necessity drives even proud 
 
 41 
 
42 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 Princes find themselves obliged to accept the inevitable, and 
 so it comes about that in Rome of to-day the famous Palazzos 
 are peopled by hordes of foreigners, and many of the greatest 
 families are glad of the shelter of an upper floor in the 
 ancestral home. The Palazzo Farnese, which was built by 
 Pope Paul III., Alessandro Farnese, in the sixteenth century^ 
 is the home of the French Ambassador to the Quirinal ; the 
 Spanish Ambassador to the Italian Court finds a home on one 
 floor of the Palazzo Barberini; in the Palazzo Borghese a 
 dealer in antiquities occupies the ground-floor; the Palazzos 
 Colonna, Odescalchi, and many others are let in floors. In 
 Rome, the city of proud aristocrats, the spirit of democracy 
 rears its head in triumph, for Princes, Cardinals, Ambassadors, 
 Bankers and art-dealers, share the same roof more often than 
 not. 
 
 But notwithstanding ravaged fortunes and altered circum- 
 stances there still remain a few old Roman families who have 
 never accepted the gold of foreigners in return for a saite of 
 rooms in the old home, and amongst these Felipe Lorenzo, Duca 
 della Rocca, who was also Principe Santanini, was prominent. 
 He was by no means a rich man — in fact for his position he 
 was poor, but he regarded the old home as sacred and would 
 as soon have permitted his beautiful wife to sing in a cafe for 
 money as have permitted a stranger to become master, even 
 temporarily, of a single room in his house. His uncle, 
 Cardinal Santanini, occupied a suite of rooms on the second 
 floor, and very many of the great reception rooms were locked 
 up and empty ; but the salons habitually used by the Duchessa 
 were hung with tapestries and comfortably furnished — as 
 comfort is understood in Italy — and the quaint old garden was 
 a ceaseless delight to the Duca, who was partly crippled and 
 very delicate. 
 
 The room in which supper was served on the night of 
 the gala performance at the Costanzi was comparatively 
 small, and in the soft light of a huge lamp, shrouded in pale, 
 gold silk, which hung directly over the large round table, 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 43 
 
 it looked delightfully cosy. The ceiling was very high, as 
 in all Italian living rooms, and the walls were hung with 
 dark tapestries which showed faded tints of peacock greens 
 and blues. The frescoes on the ceiling had been executed 
 by a pupil of Michelangelo, and at the far end of the 
 room a superb painting, the "St Jerome" of Leonardo da 
 Vinci, was framed in dull gold and hung low. Bianca della 
 Rocca had just entered and was talking eagerly to a priest 
 in a black cassock, bordered with red, who was sitting in 
 a roomy high-backed chair. His keen old face, framed in 
 white hair, soft and fine as silk, was alight with amusement, 
 and as his finely-shaped head was silhouetted against a dark 
 curtain one saw that the profile was clean cut and very 
 remarkable. The large nose was thin and of the pure Roman 
 type, and the firm lips, now colourless, were capable of great 
 sweetness and not a little determination. Cardinal Santanini 
 was in many respects a notable man. He had long been 
 the close friend of the Pope ; and of recent years he had filled 
 the office of Papal Chamberlain or Camerlingo. He was 
 a man of simple tastes, of great learning and of serene temper. 
 His niece by marriage, who adored him, said she permitted 
 him to take snuff because she felt that without one slight 
 vice he might be tempted to emulate Saint Francis and to 
 slowly rise from solid earth to mid-air! 
 
 Bianca della Rocca was one of the most charming of 
 women and exceedingly handsome in a subdued way. She 
 was tall and of regal figure, but neither in dress nor manner 
 was she sensational. The Cardinal declared that she 
 possessed the leading qualities of a Royal woman : she was 
 always in the fashion but never unduly remarkable. 
 
 The younger daughter of Marchese Flavio Chiaramonte, 
 a hero of many duels, Bianca was of pure Roman descent 
 and she loved her country with a fervour that roused feelings 
 of amazement in her friend, Gabrielle Borizoff, a shameless 
 cosmopoUtan who was keenly alive to the short-comings 
 of all countries : she was gentle in manner and soriiewhat 
 
44 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 retiring except when with her intimate friends : her tastes, 
 like those of the Cardinal, were very simple, and she was 
 equally admirable as wife to a chronic invalid and mother 
 to two handsome little sons. 
 
 While the Duchessa was giving her uncle a vivid descrip- 
 tion of some visitors she had received that afternoon the 
 folding doors of an adjoining room were thrown open, and 
 a servant in black livery slowly pushed a wheel-chair towards 
 the supper-table. Bianca ran forward to greet her husband 
 and at the same moment the expected guests were announced. 
 As Princess Borizoff swept across the room to pay her respects 
 to the Cardinal, Felipe della Rocca's dark, mournful eyes 
 followed her in wonder. She was his wife's intimate friend 
 and he himself had known her for several years, but he had 
 not become accustomed to her beauty. Each time he saw 
 her enter a room her insolent grace and matchless distinction 
 came as a revelation. He loved his wife truly and with entire 
 devotion, but he considered Gabrielle the most perfectly 
 beautiful woman he had ever seen. To-night she was in 
 a curious mood : brilliant, witty but at times cruel. As the 
 little party gathered round the supper-table the Cardinal, 
 who was eating nothing, let his keen, grey eyes rest on her 
 face and his expression was interrogative. She looked up, 
 met his glance, and paused in a scathing criticism on the 
 manners of an English beauty who had been present at the 
 Gala and whose flirtations were attracting a good deal of 
 attention that season. 
 
 "Your Eminence is rather shocked? You think I am 
 unduly critical? But then, really^ it is difficult for us poor 
 foreigners to understand the little ways of the English 
 ieune fille 1 You would, I know, have the mantle of charity 
 very elastic, but even to elasticity there is a limit?" She 
 smiled deprecatingly and, as though to change the subject 
 lightly touched one of the lovely tea-roses with which the 
 table was decorated. **What glorious roses. Quite perfect 
 in shape and colour." 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 45 
 
 The Cardinal glanced slyly at Dering who was engaged 
 in animated conversation with Mrs Waring at the other side 
 of the table. 
 
 "Thanks to our young friend over there. He is largely 
 responsible for their perfection." 
 
 "Mr Dering?" The Princess had followed in the track 
 of the grey eyes. 
 
 " Yes. Did you not know that he is a famous gardener ? " 
 
 Miles looked across and caught the look of amazement 
 on the scornful face : he laughed outright. 
 
 " Your Eminence loves to jest." 
 
 " But I do not understand. Does Mr Dering grow such 
 roses as these in a garden in the Via Giulia ? I should not 
 have supposed such a thing possible ? " 
 
 "Oh, no." The Cardinal folded his delicate hands and 
 prepared to enjoy himself. "He is not, as yet, a master- 
 gardener, with a garden of his own. He is just a good honest 
 employi who earns fair wages and who is, I think, allowed 
 to take his breakfast on the premises of his employer. I 
 have stated the case correctly, have I not, Mr Dering ? " 
 
 " Quite correctly, your Eminence." 
 
 Dering was very human and he was conscious of feeling 
 pleasure when he saw an expression of impatience, almost 
 of annoyance, cross the face of the Princess. She disliked 
 him, of that he felt sure ; and she had taken very little trouble 
 to conceal her feelings. He smiled openly as his eyes met 
 those of the Cardinal, and if Gabrielle Borizoff had seen the 
 smile she would have allowed the subject to drop, without 
 further notice. But her curiosity was aroused and she did 
 not care to deny it. 
 
 "I repeat that I do not understand." 
 
 Dering remained silent and Bianca della Rocca broke in. 
 
 "Uncle loves to make mysteries — you ought to know 
 that by this time. But it really is true that Mr Dering is 
 an excellent gardener and had something to do with these 
 roses. You know that Giovanni Altieri has started a sort 
 
46 
 
 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 of market-garden on his estate near the Porta Furba ? People 
 rather laughed at the idea at first; but really he is making 
 money and some of his friends — Mr Bering is one of them — 
 go out there every morning and work for several hours under 
 the direction of the head-gardeners. I think, indeed I am 
 almost sure, that this idea of amateur helpers was started for 
 the benefit of little Gigi Altieri who was so delicate. Dr 
 Doyenbert said that it would do him good to be in the 
 open air as much as possible, and someone, who shall be 
 nameless, invented the idea of a band of helpers who work 
 in the early morning and then have an open-air picnic 
 breakfast together! A great many people now make a point 
 of having all their flowers and vegetables from the Altieri 
 Gardens." 
 
 "Quite ideal! So ideal that it sounds like the plot of 
 a romance. Principe Altieri loses one fortune at Monte 
 Carlo and makes another at Porta Furba — through the medium 
 of tea-roses. The idea is exquisite and so modern. Even 
 the Romans are becoming democratic : the spirit of trade 
 has brushed aside the last remaining fortifications of the 
 vanquished patricians ! " 
 
 A smothered exclamation of annoyance broke from 
 Clio Waring. She had been nursing a grievance all the 
 evening and was feeling distinctly angry with Gabrielle. 
 With apparent irrelevance she said, addressing the Cardinal : 
 
 "Your Eminence knows everything. Can you tell me 
 who it was who said — * Calomniez^ calomniez toujours : 
 quelque chose restera ^ 
 
 The expressive white brows shot up, one reaching a little 
 higher than the other, and the clasped hands moved softly 
 as in the action of washing. 
 
 " I should like for your sake to think that it was not that 
 gifted old rascal Voltaire. We must give the matter the 
 benefit of the doubt, for I am sure it would be very painful 
 for you to realize that you had quoted such a person — in 
 my presence ! I am reminded of a delectable moment in 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 47 
 
 which my old friend Mrs Beresford gave me a great deal of 
 advice on the subject of the Holy Catholic Church and its 
 management. She led out, with wondrous skill, a whole army 
 of astounding statements, which she assured me were * ac- 
 cepted facts.' I was overwhelmed, but at the end, just to 
 prove to myself that I had some right to my red sash, I 
 ventured to ask her authority. Without a tremor or a blush, 
 and she is Irish and — now — a Catholic, she said * Rome.' 
 I found courage to reply by a single word — ' Zola ? ' and 
 she nodded wisely. Later on she came so far to meet my 
 possible views as to say that she believed the book was not 
 recommended to the attention of * young Catholics': I re- 
 plied that I was under the impression that the book was not 
 unknown to the Index. To which suggestion she answered — 
 'Your Eminence is as Irish as myself! You couldn't live 
 without your little joke' I I have a great many Irish friends, 
 and some of my experiences with them led me to conclude 
 that I had better let her have the last word, but to this day 
 I am in the dark as to whether it was the Index itself that 
 supplied the 'joke' or her own complete indifference to its 
 dictates ! " 
 
 Everyone laughed, and as Underwood turned to his host, 
 to whom he had been recounting some happenings of inter- 
 national interest, Clio's brow cleared : she looked at Bering, 
 but before she could speak the finely-modulated voice of the 
 Princess cut the air : 
 
 " Would it trouble you to tell me something more about 
 this wonderful market-garden, Mr Bering? Have you a 
 studio there, or does the culture of roses console you for lost 
 time?" 
 
 '' I do not lose time over the roses, Madame, and my studio 
 is in the Via Giulia. You are, I think, pleased to find 
 Altieri's scheme amusing, but it seems to me rather admir- 
 able. If you have lost your money you must either do with- 
 out it, make more or — live on charity. Personally, I am in 
 favour of making more." 
 
48 
 
 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 He spoke quietly, but all present felt the air to be charged 
 with elements of danger. From the first it had been evident 
 that there was a wall of misunderstanding between the Princess 
 and the painter. A slight flush rose to Felipe della Rocca^s 
 delicate face as he bent forward to speak. 
 
 "Madame Gabrielle, I wish you could realize what this 
 idea of Mr Bering's has meant to little Gigi. The child was 
 in miserable health and had lost courage : no one could do 
 anything with him. Now he is bright and, for him, wonder- 
 fully active. He can even take a fencing lesson every 
 morning The speaker looked towards Bering, who made 
 a gesture of assent. A moment of silence and then the tired 
 voice added : " If anyone had done all that for me when I 
 was Gigi's age, I should not be sitting in this chair now." 
 
 Gabrielle Borizoff was really attached to the Buca and had 
 always shown him the most delicate attention, but at that 
 moment she was influenced solely by a growing sensation of 
 irritation which she did not try to understand. She was 
 bored to extinction, so she told herself, by the good works 
 of this estimable young man. With the sweetest of smiles 
 she raised her dark eyes and fixed them on the painter's face : 
 she seemed lost in wonder. At last she said, very softly : 
 
 It certainly seems to me that Mr Bering deserves to be 
 canonized ! Within the last twelve hours I have heard of 
 him in connection with three wonderful achievements : the 
 salvation, from starvation, of a whole family of Russian 
 peasants ; the salvation, from unhealthy luxury, of a beautiful 
 young singer ; the salvation, from chronic ill-health, of Gigi 
 Altieri ! Is not such a record amazing? " 
 
 Her manner was so maliciously innocent that the mocking 
 words seemed robbed of offence, but on Bering's dark face 
 there was no answering smile. He glanced quickly at Mrs 
 Waring,- who looked confused and angry, and then his eyes 
 met those of Underwood. The American made an un- 
 conscious gesture of apology. Bering shook his head : then 
 he turned to the Princess. 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 49 
 
 " You are so well read that I need not tell you the name 
 of the poet who said : * O wad some power the giftie gie us, 
 to see oorsels as ithers see us M I really did not know I 
 impressed anyone with the idea that I was, by reason of 
 superfluous goodness, doomed to early death, but as one lives 
 one learns. I don^t quite understand what you mean about 
 the * achievements ' first named, but I certainly deserve no 
 canonization for spending three or four hours at Altieri's 
 place every morning. I'm not a man of fashion and I 
 require plenty of open-air exercise. I wouldn't miss my 
 morning tramp to Porto Furba for anything I could be offered, 
 and I am primitive enough to consider it a privilege to be 
 permitted to attend to beautiful flowers. I assure you the 
 birth and life and death of a rose make a poem of no mean 
 order." 
 
 Gabrielle Borizoff, perhaps for the first time in her life, 
 felt disconcerted. Something in the painter's expression as 
 he quoted the well-worn lines made her realize that he 
 intended them to have a double meaning: he meant her 
 to understand that it might be well if she could realize what 
 people really thought of her — what he thought. She felt 
 furious. With the audacious stranger ; with her friend Clio 
 Waring for having thrust him upon her ; with herself. She 
 had been rude and she had been reproved. The position 
 was intolerable. At the moment the conversation round the 
 table became general, for everyone felt that warring elements 
 were present. The Cardinal was speaking with considerable 
 eagerness. 
 
 " Dr Doyenbert wants to insist that Monsieur Rodin shall 
 be asked to execute it." 
 
 They were discussing a proposed statue for the Vatican 
 gardens and Underwood looked across at the painter. 
 
 **You are well acquainted with Rodin's work? Is he 
 really so very great or has his eccentricity anything to do with 
 his reputation for greatness ? " 
 
 Bering laughed. 
 4 
 
50 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 *'He is certainly one of the greatest sculptors the world 
 has known since the days of Michelangelo, and he is not 
 eccentric at all?" 
 
 " Not eccentric ? Have you seen his * Balzac ' ? " 
 
 The painter nodded. 
 
 " And hsiveyou seen his * Penseur ' ? " 
 
 The Cardinal settled himself down in his high-backed 
 chair : he was a genuine and an eclectic lover of the arts. 
 The American assented but his manner still expressed 
 doubt. 
 
 " Of course I have seen it and I realize that it is very 
 wonderful, but I cannot say that it altogether suggests to me 
 ^ A thinker 
 
 " Perhaps not — but for all that it is a * thinker ' : that and 
 nothing else. Before one can understand the work of such a 
 man as Rodin — before one can understand the work of any 
 great artist — one must be educated : and such an education 
 takes time. I grant you that the * Balzac ' is difficult to 
 understand — but the * Penseur ' ? Let your mind dwell upon 
 what thought really means when you look at it and you will 
 realize that the man is thinking all over. Not only with his 
 brain, his distended nostrils, his compressed lips and his 
 knitted brow, but with every muscle of his body. He is 
 grasping some thought and dragging from it its secrets. 
 Just like that Balzac must have looked when some fresh 
 thought flashed across his brain and when he knew he must 
 seize and imprison it. Just like that I have often seen 
 Carriere look when a great idea held him. A great thinker, 
 painter, poet, sculptor, or writer — is not a poseur who * thinks ' 
 for the gallery. A great truth is flashed across his brain and it 
 is his duty to imprison and preserve it for the benefit of 
 generations to come. Carriere once said to me, just before 
 his death, ' Life is a series of efforts in which we take active 
 part and which must be continued by others. This idea 
 greatly encourages me because it leaves me perpetually work- 
 ing and in action.' He said that, and meant it, because he 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 51 
 
 was a great thinker, and because he greeted each great thought 
 in the spirit of Rodin's * Fenseur.^ " 
 
 A subtle change had come over the painter's face, and his 
 voice, always rich and musical, had taken on a vibrating tone : 
 for the moment everything was forgotten except the demands 
 of art. His dark eyes had become dreamy, and in their 
 depths there was fire. The old Cardinal looked thoroughly 
 content and his smile was comprehensive as he exchanged 
 glances with his niece. 
 
 I should like to meet Monsieur Rodin,'' he said. He 
 must be an extraordinary man. He travels a great deal, no 
 doubt ? He is likely to come to Rome this year ? " 
 
 " I don't know, your Eminence : no doubt he has travelled 
 a good deal, but I'm sure he is of opinion that he does not 
 need to travel abroad in order to find food for his genius. 
 He finds all he wants at Meudon or on the Boulevards." 
 
 " It is rather difficult to see where food for the imagination 
 of an artist could be found on the Boulevards of Paris ! " 
 
 It was Mrs Waring who made the little interruption and 
 the painter smiled as he turned to her. 
 
 " Perhaps ? But then Rodin does not believe in 
 * imagination.' He says it's only a hindrance which consists 
 of old lessons once read and unconsciously absorbed. He 
 knows that art must be realistic." 
 
 " Of course that's all very well in theory, but how is a 
 sculptor to be realistic in these days ? Do you suppose he is 
 going to find a Venus or an Apollo in the woods at Meudon, 
 or drinking absinthe at a cafS on the Boulevards ? " 
 
 The tone was so sceptical that everyone laughed and all 
 eyes were turned on the painter. He was quite unmoved. 
 
 " Why not ? Manners and customs have changed and 
 costumes have changed — very considerably — but do you 
 suppose there are now no human forms similar to those 
 handed down to us in marble by the Greeks ? If you think 
 that I assure you you are mistaken. I've seen many a woman 
 as perfectly formed as the Venus of Milo, and many a man 
 
52 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 who might have been the model for the Belvedere Apollo. 
 Given individuals who live a healthy, natural life, and whose 
 parents, and grandparents, and great-grandparents, have been 
 even moderately natural and healthy, you are likely to dis- 
 cover something very noble. Of course the Greeks had a pull 
 over us because they worshipped physical beauty and laid 
 everything at its shrine, but even now, in these supposedly 
 degenerate days, we have beautiful things all round us if only 
 we know where to look. I could show you scores and scores 
 of Basque peasants, for example, who are as fine, physically, 
 as any of the beautiful young men of ancient days." 
 Clio laughed. 
 
 "When shall we start for the Basses-Pyrenees?" she said 
 insinuatingly. 
 
 Princess Borizoff leaned back in her chair and lazily 
 moved to and fro her fan of carved tortoise-shell and lace. 
 She was beginning to understand why Clio Waring spoke with 
 enthusiasm of the painter. They were evidently good friends 
 and Dering^s manner towards the impulsive little widow was 
 delightful : he seemed like an elder brother and a close friend 
 all in one. She herself was taking no part in the conversation 
 and it amused her to watch the eager faces all turned in the 
 same direction. The Irish artist was accepted as an authority 
 in her friend's house. 
 
 The Cardinal was speaking. 
 But surely Monsieur Rodin would admit that constant 
 and varied travel gives width and strength to the ideas ? He 
 would not suggest a circumscribed education for an artist ? " 
 
 " I think it probable, your Eminence, that he would not 
 admit the word * circumscribed.' I have heard him say that 
 the man who knows one tree perfectly, the shape of each 
 branch, the details of each leaf, its aspect under each change 
 of light and shade — the man who knows the beauty of one 
 woman in all her moods — knows more of nature and of real 
 beauty than he who has been three times round the world and 
 has ' done ' the picture galleries of Europe ! On that point 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 53 
 
 all great artists are agreed. You remember Puvis de Chavannes' 
 ^J^ai vu le so let I se coucher sur la Loire. J^ai vu tous les 
 couchers de soleiV 1 Carriere has said the same thing over 
 and over again, and it was the soul of Flaubert's art. You 
 find the * one woman in all her moods ' in Madame 
 Bovary." 
 
 " I see ! or rather, I do not yet see : I only realize that 
 there is something worth while to be seen. You studied 
 under Carriere — did you not ? Another great and little under- 
 stood genius. Difficult too : I myself could never have hoped 
 to even begin to understand him if my old friend Doyenbert 
 had not been so insistent/* 
 
 " Yes. The doctor permits himself that one enthusiasm. 
 
 "Two — I think?** The Cardinal glanced across the 
 table with a mischievous expression on his handsome old face 
 and Bering gave an answering smile : he knew that the 
 famous critic had, for special reasons, sung his praises in 
 the Vatican circles. The Duca, who had been listening 
 eagerly to the conversation, broke in just then : 
 
 " Some day, when you have an hour to spare, I want you 
 to talk to me of Eugene Carriere. I have in my possession 
 one of his pictures — ^ Le baiser du soir^ — and I think it 
 superb. He must have been an extraordinary man. What 
 was he like as a teacher ? " 
 
 Bering hesitated. 
 
 "I hardly know how to answer that question. Carriere 
 was always just himself and he was unique. As to his method 
 of teaching? Perhaps you will understand something of it 
 when I tell you that the most valuable lesson he ever gave 
 me was conveyed in these words : ' The human body is not 
 a cast. It is a piece of repoussi work — hammered out by 
 great blows from within.' I took that * lesson* with me to 
 Japan and after studying it for two years I had only begun 
 to understand it! You see Carriere— like Rodin, Flaubert, 
 Balzac, Angelo — was a penseur. And his mission as a 
 Master was to teach others how to think.** 
 
54 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 "You do not think then that Nature is capable of con- 
 ducting that * mission ' ? " 
 
 The Princess spoke very softly but her smile was malicious. 
 Dering looked at her silently, then he said : 
 
 " Quite capable — if given fair play I But then it isn't the 
 fashion to play fair with Nature/' 
 
 "You mean to say that we do not care to think?" 
 
 "Much more than that. I believe the majority of men 
 and women never realize what an original thought means.'' 
 
 "Oh! Originality! That is, of course, the war-cry of 
 modern painters ; but — is it really so desirable ? " 
 
 "I wonder just what you mean when you speak of 
 * originality ' in that tone?" 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 "I am afraid I should describe * originality ' as the art 
 of being eccentric — successfully." 
 
 " Just so ! But then originality has nothing to do with 
 the art of being eccentric — successfully or otherwise. It 
 consists in the power to appreciate the emotions of humanity 
 allied to the power to express them — with pen, brush or 
 tongue." 
 
 "But then the things we call * original' are almost always 
 eccentric — more or less ? " 
 
 Clio Waring spoke quickly and the painter looked across 
 at her smiling. 
 
 "Have you never heard Dr Doyenbert trot out his pet 
 phrase — t originalite voulue n'existe pas. Si elle est voidue 
 die devient une convention ' ? " 
 
 The Cardinal's eyes lighted up. 
 
 "/ have heard him say that — more than once: and how 
 true it is. A decisive criticism on many modern works of art." 
 
 " As your Eminence is aware— the doctor is always decisive ! 
 And then he delights in displaying serene indifference towards 
 the sacrosanct canons of Art ! " 
 
 The painter was still smiling. Princess Borizoff closed 
 her fan with an impatient gesture. 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 55 
 
 "You affect to despise modern art, Mr Bering, and you 
 may be justified ; but I wish very much you would leave the 
 subject of art for a moment and return to the * mission ' in 
 connection with thought. I am afraid I must be very stupid, 
 but really I do not understand what you mean when you 
 say that we require to be taught how to think ? " 
 
 Bering paused perceptibly. He was conscious that this 
 beautiful woman was for some reason antagonistic to him, and 
 he felt tempted to turn the subject with a jest. Then he put 
 aside the small temptation as unworthy. 
 
 **I hope you'll pardon me if I say that I'm sure you are 
 wronging yourself. You are much too intelligent not to 
 realize that, nine times in ten, when we say * I think ' we 
 merely mean * I echo ' ? The average man or woman would 
 find it a difficult task to indicate clearly his or her genuine 
 thought on almost any subject. It's our habit to listen and 
 to echo — so much our habit that we do it quite unconsciously. 
 We are insistently conventional — never more so than in our 
 originality, the doctor is indeed right there. Whether original 
 thought is, or is not, a desirable affair may be a moot point, 
 but there's nothing more certain than that we — the greater 
 number of us — cannot think until we have learned to do so : 
 and the lesson is a difficult one." 
 
 " You take life very seriously ! " 
 
 It was the Princess who spoke and the painter's dark eyes 
 expressed open amusement as he looked at her. 
 
 " I take it as I find it, Madame ! It is serious — from 
 every point of view. One may listen — and echo. One may 
 scoff and deride and belittle. One may even make the pied 
 de nez at Nature, but nothing alters. Nature remains — 
 Nature ; humanity remains — humanity ; life remains — life ! 
 It's a thankless task for pigmies to kick against a mountain. 
 They would be wiser to try to understand something of its 
 construction and to climb up its rugged sides ; of course taking 
 for granted they believe that something desirable is to be 
 found on the top." 
 
56 
 
 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 *' Vou believe that?" 
 *^Yes." 
 
 The Princess looked at him for a moment. Then the 
 malicious smile stole back to her face. 
 
 "Your Eminence," she said, **do you not think that a 
 soutane would prove very becoming to Mr Dering ? " 
 
 The Cardinal's eyes were kindly but unsmiling. 
 
 "I am very sure he would not disgrace one, Princess," he 
 said quietly. 
 
 • ••••••* 
 
 The streets were mysterious with the intense blackness 
 and silvery whiteness of a Roman moonlight night when 
 Princess Borizoff drove back alone to her villa. 
 
 The big American had offered to see that Mrs Waring 
 reached her hotel in safety and Miles Dering had elected 
 to walk. 
 
 As she lay back against the luxurious cushions of her 
 carriage she allowed her thoughts to concentrate on the 
 events of the night. She was still conscious of feeling 
 irritated and she regretted having joined the supper-party; 
 but she was too intelligent herself to deny the intelligence 
 of others, and unquestionably the young painter was clever, 
 even irrteresting. She seemed again to hear his deep voice 
 as he exchanged kindly witticisms with the old Cardinal, and 
 she acknowledged that he had looked very distinguished 
 when he made a reverent genuflexion on touching his lips 
 to the amethyst ring at the moment of farewell. He was 
 not ordinary — that much she was willing to concede — and 
 somehow she found herself thinking of Clio Waring's remark, 
 **I want you to make Miles Dering wish to paint your 
 portrait.'' 
 
 She was possessed of a considerable sense of humour 
 and could sometimes appreciate a joke even when its point 
 was turned against herself. She felt certain that up to the 
 present the painter had not the faintest desire to paint her 
 portrait. Indeed, she suspected that he did not specially 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 57 
 
 admire her and this alone gave him a special place in 
 her mind. She was too beautiful and too spoiled to be 
 perturbed by the blindness of one man, but it surprised her : 
 every other painter she had ever known had raved about her 
 beauty and had asked, almost always in vain, for permission 
 to immortalize it on canvas. 
 
 She smiled softly as she recalled the bronzed face, alight 
 with the fire of some hidden feeling, as the painter had looked 
 at her and said — "Love merely asks *what can I give."* 
 He probably could love like that, she thought, and the smile 
 faded : for she remembered a certain night, in Russia, on 
 which a man, whom she had always liked but never loved, 
 had said almost the same thing to her — a man who had 
 given her, willingly and without thought of any return, his 
 whole life. And curiously enough it was this man who had 
 sent her the Russia " of Miles Bering. 
 
 In sending the picture her old friend had written a letter, 
 full of devotion — a letter without hope, for he had long 
 before realized that she could never love him, but which 
 contained precious words of abiding affection. In it he had 
 said — "Should it ever happen that you learn the meaning 
 of the words * I love,' I beg of you, I entreat of you, to tell 
 me. I ask it, as my right, that I should share your joy 
 and I shall claim, as my right, the privilege of crowning with 
 my heart's best wishes the man who shall have made you 
 quite perfect/' 
 
 Poor Boris — his love had been very welcome for it had never 
 brought her trouble : he was a poet and a patriot : he loved 
 his country only one degree less than he loved her. And he 
 would have found the "achievements " which she had mocked 
 very fine. 
 
 Yes — Boris de Romanoff would have liked the painter. 
 He would have condemned, silently but most surely, her 
 attitude. She had, she knew, wished to make Bering 
 ridiculous. And what had happened? That any human 
 creature could dare to reprove her she declined to admit, 
 
58 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 but — he had shown no fear : he had not taken much trouble 
 to conceal his thoughts. 
 
 She dismissed the carnage and crossed the wide terrace 
 in front of the house. She was on high ground. Rome, 
 fallen yet deathless, spread itself out before her in sombre 
 shadows. Soracte and the Alban Mountains were outlined 
 against the horizon, and in the mystic brilliancy of a moonlight 
 night the dome of St Peter's gleamed soft and white. Long 
 shadows crept out from among the box-hedges of the silent 
 gardens, and as a breath of chill wdnd stole up from the orange 
 groves the Princess shivered and drew her sables more closely 
 round her. As far as she could see, her world was domed 
 with stars thrown against a midnight sky. There was a great 
 calm. Rome was sleeping. 
 
 During the evening rain had fallen: over the sleeping 
 city a mist, opalescent as twilight, stretched its ghostly wings : 
 on the ivy borders of the fountains rain-drops gleamed silver 
 in the moonlight and the still waters seemed to have borrowed 
 the *'deep divine dark dayshine of the sea'' for the reflections 
 were pale gold as well as silver. It was a magic moment 
 and the Princess leaned her hand against the stone balustrade 
 of the terrace as she bent forward and watched the sleeping 
 city of strange dreams and unrealized desires. 
 
 On the palimpsest of Rome the ambitions of world-famous 
 men have been written — and but imperfectly erased. To the 
 eyes of the soul mad desires, fierce emulations, ruthless 
 determination to conquer, stand revealed on the invisible 
 manuscript — in flaming letters of gold and of blood. 
 
 For two thousand years and more Rome was the palpitat- 
 ing heart of the world of ambition and desire : and how 
 poignant must have been her suffering? Who can wonder 
 that her stately head is bowed^under^ its weight of woe, and 
 that the cypress — faithful mourner in imperishable black — 
 springs up on every side ? 
 
 With spring may come sweet carpets'^of violets and blue 
 irises and yellow crocus flowers. Pomegranate and oleander 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 59 
 
 and myrtle may expand under the burning rays of a southern 
 sun. Roses may bud and blossom on every wall and lonely 
 tomb, but spring, summer and autumn come and go, and 
 the cypress, the symbol of the Eternal City, remains unmoved, 
 untouched. 
 
 The minutes crept on, one by one, and still the Princess 
 leaned forward and watched the sleeping city. Her thoughts 
 were with the past but something of the present was also 
 with her. Words spoken that evening by the audacious 
 painter came back with unwelcome persistency. He had 
 been unexpectedly frank — almost impertinent, she thought, 
 but she could not drive him from her thoughts. 
 
 How his dark face had softened when he said — **The 
 birth and death of a rose make a poem of no mean order." 
 She smiled half mockingly as she plucked a glorious red 
 rose from its trellis support and noted the effect of moonlight 
 on its velvet petals. 
 
 Then she turned and entered the house, scarcely conscious 
 that the flower was still in her hand. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 HE Derings had a suite of rooms in an old house in 
 
 1 the Via Giulia. The painter retained the flat in Paris 
 which had so long been occupied by his uncle, but his real 
 home was in Rome. Paris he loved because of cherished 
 associations : in Japan he had many friends, but he never 
 forgot that it was in the Eternal City the artist within him had 
 been roused. 
 
 Years before, when he visited it for the first time, accom- 
 panied by his uncle, Rome had come as a revelation to the 
 dreamy boy. It was in midsummer when few foreigners were 
 to be seen in the streets and when the Romans themselves 
 were in full possession of their City. Scorching suns had 
 burnt and blistered the pines and forced from them a subtle 
 perfume which lulled the imagination and awakened the 
 senses. Golden oranges lay languid against a background of 
 dark green leaves, and in the gardens yellow jasmines and 
 velvet roses, crimson and white and yellow, sent forth their 
 scents with lavish generosity. In the streets and crowded 
 squares the people laughed and passed the time of day, and — 
 as the brazen sun-god sank to sleep and made room for the 
 pale gold moon — whispered of love and grew strangely 
 silent. 
 
 In that first visit the boy had learned that the immensity 
 of the past serves but to enhance the glories of the present. 
 He had then seen Rome in the glory of summer — at the time 
 when all southern cities are in their zenith — and he had never 
 forgotten his first impressions. 
 
 The rooms on the first floor of the quaint old house in the 
 
 60 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 6i 
 
 Via Giulia were large and sufficiently numerous for the little 
 household which consisted of the artist, his sister, and two 
 devoted men-servants, who had attached themselves to Bering 
 when he was wandering in Japan, and who had refused to be 
 left behind when he returned to Europe. 
 
 Miles loved the old street, with its square paving-stones 
 which skirted the houses, since of footpath there was none : 
 the long straight street which had once been used as a Corso 
 and which reached from France — represented by the Palazzo 
 Farnese — to the national Church of the Florentines, San 
 Giovanni de 'Fiorentini. He loved it for its associations, for 
 Michelangelo had worked on the river substructions of the old 
 Church on the Tiber, and he loved it for its silence and calm 
 dignity. The Via Giulia had once been great and opulent, 
 and now in the twilight of its existence it was content to be 
 simply restful. For over five hundred yards it ran parallel 
 with the Tiber, but of traffic it knew little or nothing. It 
 seemed a forgotten corner of the great city. Here and there 
 creeping plants spread their green loveliness over the bars 
 and gratings of sombre windows; the little lane leading 
 direct to the river banks was rough and deserted as a country 
 road. 
 
 But though Bering was attached by cords of fervent 
 adm.iration to the Eternal City he sometimes found himself 
 regretting, keenly, the old days in his uncle's flat in the Rue de 
 Douai, He had many good friends in Rome, but in Paris, 
 in John Fitzgerald's lifetime, he had been accustomed to 
 associating daily with men whose names were world-famous. 
 Everyone had loved the witty old Irishman, and his supper 
 parties — at which large dishes of Limerick bacon had played 
 a prominent part — were eagerly attended. Eugene Carriere, 
 who had rooms close by, was one of the most honoured 
 guests : not infrequently Auguste Rodin, Jean Bolent, Br 
 Boyenbert and other celebrities swelled the crowd, and Bering 
 often found himself looking back, with something like awe, to 
 the evenings — they were not many — when a strange-looking 
 
62 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 man had shuffled into the salon. A man with a flat moujik 
 face and unkempt hair and eyes which peered this way and 
 that with devouring penetration. The name of Paul Verlaine 
 had always been surrounded in his mind with mystery and 
 unrealized possibilities. The poet had represented to him, 
 everything that was terrible and marvellous and devastating : 
 when he had looked at him, with a boy's eyes, he had found 
 himself wondering fearfully what it must mean to possess the 
 soul of a poet in the body of a satyr. 
 
 To Verlaine, John Fitzgerald had ever been specially 
 attentive and affectionate, for he loved the pauvre et faible 
 garfon " and reverenced his genius ; but the idol of his latter 
 days was Eugene Carriere. 
 
 In Carriere the old man found the realization of his 
 fondest dreams. Here indeed was a man of whom the 
 community of Brook Farm would have been proud. Here 
 was a man who had had the courage of beginnings and who 
 had no fear of poverty. 
 
 It was his greatest delight to draw attention to the fact 
 that though Carriere's life, from the ordinary point of view, 
 was simple to the verge of banality, it was crammed 
 with interest because it was in touch with the great and 
 simple elements of humanity. Carriere was, to him, a perfect 
 specimen of a man who had slowly entered into possession of 
 himself, who, in his own personality, taught those who were 
 eager to succeed too quickly what it is that gives courage for 
 a great struggle : what it is that gives force for continuous 
 effort : what it is that gives serenity in inevitable trials. He 
 never ceased to impress upon his nephew the fact that the 
 force which sustained Eugene Carriere through countless 
 struggles and disappointments was his inviolable fidelity to a 
 lofty ideal. To the ideal which embodies truth and love. An 
 ideal so supremely great that it frees its followers from all 
 other servitude. 
 
 To the cheery evenings in the old flat, Miles often looked 
 back and always with keen regret that they should have passed 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 63 
 
 out of his reach. To endeavour to reconstruct anything 
 which has been very precious is almost always a thankless 
 task, but reconstruction becomes impossible when the chief 
 elements are wanting. 
 
 John Fitzgerald and Eugene Carriere and Paul Verlaine 
 had gone in search of that undiscovered country from whose 
 bourne no traveller returns.'* Auguste Rodin, Dolent, Doyen- 
 bert and many others remained and were counted amongst 
 the painter's best friends, but his love and reverence had been 
 given to his uncle and to his master and friend — Carriere. 
 
 Bering and his sister had the gift of making a home wher- 
 ever they were, and persons of widely differing tastes and 
 character found it very pleasant to spend a quiet hour in the 
 big silent studio, or in Jessica's private den. Mrs Waring 
 paid frequent visits to the Via Giulia and, two days after the 
 gala at the Costanzi, she found her way to the pretty sitting- 
 room, hung in grey-blue linen and gay with chintz furniture 
 coverings, which overlooked the garden. 
 
 Clio was fond of the painter's sister and thoroughly enjoyed 
 spending an afternoon with her. She admired the quiet little 
 woman's strength of purpose and though she chaffed her a 
 good deal about her "societies" and her interest in "im- 
 possible people " she was intelligent enough to see that she 
 was, in her own way, unique. 
 
 Jessica Bering was a very sweet-looking woman of about 
 thirty-two, with a fragile figure and pretty, if insignificant, 
 features. Her eyes were the one remarkable feature of her 
 small face : deep blue in colour and set in fringes of black 
 lashes, they were the mirrors of a singularly pure soul. 
 
 In the long ago days Jess had had a love affair which had 
 not ended well. She had given a girl's fresh generous love to 
 a man who had accepted and then tired of the gift. She had 
 never uttered a word of complaint and when her Uncle John 
 Fitzgerald had spoken out with characteristic warmth of 
 temper she had taken her courage in both hands and had 
 given her answer. She said that she had experienced the 
 
64 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 joys of love and that no one could take that experience from 
 her. If she had failed to retain that which had once been in 
 her possession the fault was hers. She had spoken with 
 simple dignity but with such determination that "Jack Fitz " 
 had recognized that he must give in. The same fighting-blood 
 which never ceased to course through his veins was active in 
 the fragile form of his niece, only in another guise. She would 
 never ask for pity — nor accept it. 
 
 Mrs Waring was looking distractingly pretty that afternoon : 
 she was dressed from head to foot in grey, a pale, subtle shade, 
 and at her breast there was a huge bunch of violets. She 
 looked little more than a girl though she unhesitatingly 
 admitted to thirty. 
 
 It was evident that she felt at home in Bering's flat, for 
 when one of the Japanese servants arranged the tea-table she 
 lifted a corner of the lace-edged cloth and uttered an exclama- 
 tion of mock indignation. 
 
 " My dear girl — but where's your consistency ? Genuine 
 * Irlande ' and of the most costly order ! What does that 
 reformer brother of yours say to such extravagance ? " 
 
 Jessica laughed merrily. 
 
 " Why will you insist on pretending to believe that Miles 
 hates pretty things ? He loves them. Sometimes I tell him 
 that he wallows in luxury ! He brought back the loveliest big 
 quilts from Japan — all soft satins and exquisite embroideries, 
 and he has one of them on his bed always. I tell you he 
 revels in purple and fine linen : his silk shirts are dreams : I 
 often threaten to cut them up for blouses ! " 
 
 Mrs Waring sat back in her arm-chair and threw out her 
 hands in pretended horror. 
 
 But he's always preaching against the extravagance of the 
 present-day generation. IVe heard him. You can't deny 
 it." 
 
 " Senseless extravagance, yes, perhaps — when he has time 
 to think about it. But you never heard him say that 
 hand-made embroideries or laces were extravagances — when 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 65 
 
 those who own them know how and by whom they were 
 made ? " 
 
 **But what difference can it make * how and by whom* 
 a thing is made ? You want it and you buy it : that's the 
 whole affair/' 
 
 " Not quite." Jessica's musical voice suddenly became 
 hard. It may be the * whole affair ' to you but what of the 
 girls and women who put their life into the stitches of which 
 you think so little ? " 
 
 Clio stared. 
 
 My dear ! What of them, indeed ? How should I, or 
 anyone else who buys things, know anything about them ? " 
 **But you ought." 
 
 Clio put down her tea-cup, which was of fine egg-shell 
 china, and sat up very straight. 
 
 "Look here, Jessica," she said firmly, "you really can 
 carry that sort of thing too far. You're one of the best, and 
 of course your brother is a genius ; but between you you've got 
 hold of the quaintest ideas and people don't understand them. 
 Of course we all admire the famous Knight of La Mancha in 
 theory, but just consider, dear sensible little woman that you 
 are, what we should think of him if we saw him riding down 
 the Corso on Rosinante ? " 
 
 Jessica handed her guest some delicious-looking foie gras 
 sandwiches. She felt a little vexed but a favourite saying of 
 her uncle's flashed across her mind — " More bees are caught 
 in honey than in vinegar." The lines round her sensitive 
 mouth relaxed and she laughed. 
 
 **And so even you look on Miles as a modern Don 
 Quixote ? Simply because he has ordinarily decent views 
 about things? Didn't someone in the long ago days say — 
 ' Defend me from my friends, I can defend myself from my 
 enemies ' ? " 
 
 Clio made ready for battle. 
 
 "Ordinary views? You think your brother's views on 
 things in general — or your own views for that matter — 
 5 
 
66 
 
 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 ordinary? My dear child, if you really think that you 
 must know very little about the world in which you 
 live." 
 
 "Miles is not ordinary, of course I know that, but the 
 reason his ideas, some of them, seem peculiar is because he 
 is accustomed to look under the surface. He was brought 
 up like that. Uncle John Fitzgerald, our guardian, was 
 greatly interested in workers of all kinds, and he felt very 
 strongly about the miserable prices doled out to skilled 
 workers — in lace and embroidery and such things. He did 
 everything he could, in America and in France, to induce rich 
 women to take trouble to see that their fine work was done 
 by people who got properly paid for doing it. He went into 
 the matter thoroughly and had frightful rows with some 
 of the dressmakers and lingerie people in Paris. Miles isn't 
 half such a fanatic as uncle was on such subjects, but of 
 course he too sees that you women of the world might do no 
 end of good if only you would take a little trouble. You 
 could force the people you deal with to pay good prices 
 for good work if only you would exert yourselves and 
 insist." 
 
 Mrs Waring's face was a study. 
 
 " Insist? With the Rue de la Paix people? Oh, Jessica, 
 you must be adorably young ! You ought to talk to Gabrielle 
 Borizoff if you want that sort of thing done. She has the 
 courage of limitless pin-money and a sort of semi-royal 
 position, but it's no use expecting anything from me. If I find 
 courage to ' insist ' on having a black gown when any of those 
 people want it to be white I flap my wings and cackle loudly. 
 You don't know them, my child : you carCt^ or you wouldn't 
 talk about * insisting.'" 
 
 "Perhaps not — but I know Miles. I am very sure the 
 Parisian dressmaker has not yet been born who could silence 
 him, if he felt he could do any good by talking." 
 
 " I'm sure of it ! He's a marvel, but — I wish I understood 
 him. He's so clever — so extraordinarily, exaggeratedly 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 67 
 
 clever that he might simply do anything. He could make 
 heaps and heaps of money if only — " 
 
 " If only he would become a fashionable portrait 
 painter ? " 
 
 " Wellj something like that. You know it really is not 
 a crime to make people look as they want to look? If a 
 person pays for a portrait there's no reason, so far as I can 
 see, why he, or she, shouldn't have the sort of picture he, or 
 she, wants. It's only a matter of effective backgrounds and 
 a few lines taken out, or stuck in, and just a wee cloud of 
 flattery. What's the difficulty? The person who orders the 
 picture is pleased and the painter is well paid for his 
 trouble?" 
 
 " But so very many portrait painters work on just those 
 lines ? " 
 
 Yes — but they are not Miles Bering ! You know he's 
 a thing apart. A very special and unique individual. He's 
 magnetic, everyone says that, and then he's abnormally clever. 
 He has the ball at his feet if only he would take the trouble 
 to kick it off. He might easily become a very wealthy man 
 indeed." Jessica folded her hands quietly and laid them on 
 her lap, She shook her head. 
 
 Miles would never become a very wealthy man — not 
 even if he elected to follow the course you suggest. He has 
 Uncle Jack's ideas about hoarding money or even spending 
 more than his fair share. If he made large sums of money 
 he would certainly give the greater part of it away." 
 
 Give it away ? " 
 " Everything beyond the sum he had decided was his own 
 fair share." 
 
 " My dear girl — but this is absolute lunacy ! " 
 "I don't think so." 
 
 Jessica's smile was a little baffling and Clio looked 
 ruffled. 
 
 But it is. One is obliged to swim with the current — or 
 drown ! All these ideas about sharing with others are 
 
68 
 
 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 beautiful in theory — but who's going to practise them ; and 
 you remember the old question, *What is one among so 
 many?' Why, it's a well-known fact that the most ardent 
 socialistic leaders don't scruple to enrich themselves at the 
 expense of their followers. They preach beautiful and most 
 touching abnegation, but do they practise it — any one of 
 them?" 
 
 " Miles is not a socialistic leader but certainly he practises 
 what he preaches. Indeed, he never preaches at all : he just 
 does what he considers to be the fair thing." 
 
 " But why shouldn't one be fair to oneself? If an 
 Almighty Being has given us special talents, don't you suppose 
 He intended us to make the best use of them ? Surely if a 
 man can earn a lot of money by his own exertions he has a 
 perfect right to spend it ? " Mrs Waring was excited and a 
 delicious pink flush made her dimpled cheeks peachlike as 
 those of a child : she was firmly convinced that it would be 
 a splendid work to bring Jessica Bering, and her brother, if 
 possible, to a normal state of mind. 
 
 The little woman of the wonderful eyes sat back in 
 her chair and looked at her visitor in quiet amusement : she 
 was debating in her mind whether it was worth while to speak 
 seriously. She was fond of Clio but she did not credit her 
 with any great depth of understanding. At last she said : 
 
 " He has a right to spend it — but how ? On himself? Or 
 even, in large quantities, on persons who are near and dear to 
 him ? It is a question we all have to consider — and answer. 
 For Miles the question is not, perhaps, so difficult as for many 
 others, because he was not educated in an ordinary way. 
 Uncle Jack had very decided views and he never allowed 
 them to sleep. All his life Miles has been enveloped in them, 
 and it would be strange if he saw things, and people, as others 
 see them. Uncle Jack's motto was ' Live and help live,' and 
 that's all Miles tries to do. It seems so simple that one would 
 suppose everyone could do the same thing, but — no ! They 
 do not — and they will not. Further than that, they jeer at 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 69 
 
 anyone who tries to do it ; even you think that Miles is a 
 pleasant sort of lunatic ! 
 
 The peach flush deepened. 
 
 ^Tm sure I don't." Then, under the dominion of the 
 steadfast eyes, she added hastily, think he's simply 
 splendid — a perfect dear, but I can't help wanting him to 
 make a great big success and to show people that he's right 
 and they're wrong. You know how they talk — some of these 
 fools here. They say he's a charlatan and poseur and good- 
 ness knows what else. And the only way to convince them 
 would be to make a sensational success — some famous 
 person's portrait, but done in the right way, you know ! 
 Something gorgeous and exotic ! He could do it if only he 
 would, but he's obstinate as a Spanish mule, and I believe you 
 back him up." Jessica broke into infectious laughter, and as 
 she laughed her face seemed suddenly to grow very young. 
 
 "You really imagine that it worries Miles to know that 
 lots of people call him a ' charlatan ' and insist that he poses, 
 in season and out? Oh— how very little you know him. 
 Miles has faults in plenty, but I assure you that amongst them 
 you will not find a trace of smallness ; and I'm afraid you 
 might look a long time before you would discover a trace of 
 humility ! He knows very well what is due to him and to his 
 art, and when the right moment comes he will take possession 
 of his kingdom — you will see." 
 
 *^But suppose he wants to marry — where would then be 
 his magnificent views about sharing with outsiders ? " 
 Just where they now are." 
 
 **Um — ? I think that would depend on the girl! 
 Suppose — ^just for the sake of argument — he took it into his 
 head to fall in love with that awfully pretty girl he is going to 
 paint, Violet Hilliard? Do you think she would stand the 
 * share' business, or that he would have courage to try to 
 convert herV^ 
 
 " Miss Hilliard ? But why do you mention her name in 
 this connection?" 
 
70 
 
 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 An expression of fear, almost terror, flashed into Jessica's 
 eyes and Clio felt something of regret. 
 
 "It was just an imaginary case," she said quickly, "but 
 you know the girl is wonderfully lovely and your impossible 
 brother has made a great concession in her favour. It's 
 almost as hard to get him to paint a woman's portrait as to 
 make him see on which side his bread is buttered. People 
 have begun to talk about the picture already and of course 
 the talk has been accompanied by the inevitable nod and 
 wink." 
 
 Jessica remained silent for several minutes. Her hands, 
 long and delicately formed, were clasped, but a slight nervous 
 movement was apparent in the fingers. She looked straight 
 into her visitor's eyes, as though silently questioning them. 
 At last she said slowly : 
 
 ^^Miss Hilliard's aunt is a friend of mine — she and I 
 work together, in several directions, in Paris. She expressed 
 a wish that Miles should paint her niece's portrait, and he, 
 rather unwillingly, consented. Miss Hilliard, the aunt, is a 
 splendid woman and devotes almost all her time to what you 
 would call good works ! I have the greatest respect and 
 esteem for her and I begged of Miles not to refuse her 
 request. He is difficult about women's portraits ; he doesn't 
 care about doing them." 
 
 "But why?" 
 
 " He thinks that very few women want to be painted as 
 they really are; they want something artificial and what 
 people call ^picturesque,' and he isn't any good at that sort 
 of thing." 
 
 " But then this girl is really amazingly lovely. If he simply 
 paints her as she is it's bound to be a delicious portrait. Her 
 colouring is unique." 
 
 "Yes, I suppose it is." 
 
 "You don't like her?" 
 
 " I hardly know her." 
 
 " But what you do know you don't like ? " 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 71 
 
 Clio was insistent and again the grave eyes were turned on 
 her questioningly. 
 
 She is very attractive/* 
 
 " So attractive that you're half afraid he'll fall in love with 
 her?" 
 
 * In love ' ! What a phrase ! What has love to do with 
 'in' or *out,' Mrs Waring? Isn't it enough to say that it 
 exists or doesn't exist ? " 
 
 Both women started violently and a flood of colour stained 
 Jessica's pale face. 
 
 " Miles," she said appealingly. Then she shrank back into 
 the depths of her arm-chair. 
 
 Bering advanced into the room. He was smiling rather 
 mischievously, but no one could guess from his face how 
 much or how Httle he had overheard. He looked triumphant 
 and Clio Waring realized afresh the compelling qualities of 
 his voice. 
 
 It's a fascinating old fable — that about the man who * fell 
 in love ' as he was setting out on his journey and ' fell out ' 
 and ' in * and * out ' many times en route^ and who hadn't the 
 ghost of an idea what love meant when the time came for him 
 to retire to his narrow mansion in Mother Earth. People 
 never tire of it. Even you, Mrs Waring ! You who are an 
 epitome of all that is mysterious and occult ! Even you 
 believe in that quaint, old idea of * falling in love.'" 
 " And why not ? " 
 
 Clio had recovered from the momentary shock and felt 
 in fine fighting form : the painter had the power to awaken 
 within her the germs of argument. 
 
 " Because falling in implies the possibility of falling out, 
 and for the sentiment which can be worn to-day and discarded 
 to-morrow you must find some other name than Move.'" 
 
 " You really believe in these deathless passions ? These 
 life-long-to-be-continued-in-another-world love affairs ? " 
 Yes. And so do you ? " 
 
 '^/; " 
 
72 
 
 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 There was a world of indignation, and not a little con- 
 tempt, in the single word and Bering laughed delightedly. 
 He moved towards a chair, laying a slender brown hand 
 caressingly on his sister's shoulder in passing, and poured 
 out a cup of tea. While carefully adding butter to a thin 
 slice of toast he looked up into Clio's face. 
 
 Don't! I know you've been gathering breath for a 
 furious denial, but let me remind you that the death of 
 Sapphira was an inconvenient one for all concerned. Your 
 views on the subject of love are sufficiently sound : you 
 do not, like your friend Madame Borizoff, believe the poor 
 little chap should be stuck up on a pole and pelted with 
 epigrams ! " 
 
 " Oh ! " Clio's restless thoughts crowded into a fresh path. 
 Do tell me what you think of her? Isn't she lovely? 
 Fascinating? " 
 
 " * Lovely ' ? Not quite that, but very handsome. 
 * Fascinating ' ? Perhaps — to those she takes the trouble to 
 fascinate. I need hardly mention that, so far, 1 have had 
 no reason to consider myself connected with that honoured 
 band ? " Clio made a grimace. 
 
 *'What on earth was wrong?" she said. "You two were 
 like cats on a house-top, waiting for each other to hiss 
 and watching each other in anticipation of the first 
 scratch ? " 
 
 " I don't know. I imagine that early in the evening 
 Madame Borizoff came to the conclusion I was an impossible 
 person. That's the impression she gave me." 
 
 **It was very odd and very annoying. I never saw her 
 like that before. And I wanted you two to become good 
 friends : I wanted it very much indeed." 
 
 Bering laid his hand softly on hers. 
 
 "You're a little angel ; but — don't lose time over me. I 
 am, as your friend thinks, 'impossible.' Of course I know 
 what has been in your mind: you've wanted to arrange for 
 me to paint Princess Borizoff's portrait. You've settled it all 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 73 
 
 in that delicious, scheming mind of yours, and youVe been 
 impressed by the idea that when once such a portrait was 
 executed — and approved — things would march to the tune 
 of * See the Conquering Hero Comes ' ! You're the sweetest 
 and dearest of women and just as lovely as ever you can be — 
 really lovely^ not merely handsome — but this time you've 
 run up against a stone wall, and there's no gate. You've 
 two fighting cats to deal with and I'm afraid you'll never 
 make a comfy home-tabby of either of us. Madame la 
 Princesse would pull out her remarkably fine eyelashes 
 sooner than let me show her herself, as I see her, and as 
 for the other poor cat — well, he'd sweep a crossing before 
 he'd consent to paint a mask — however handsome. And so 
 there we are, at an impasse ^ 
 
 '*But Gabrielle doesn't always wear a mask. She can 
 represent sweetness and light when she pleases." 
 
 " I am certain of it ; but then you yourself, when defending 
 her, use the word * represent ' ? You don't say she is 
 sweetness and light ? " 
 
 Just then a sound of voices came from outside and Bering 
 added quickly, " I forgot to say that Underwood, Doyenbert 
 and Tuke are coming in. I met them just now on the Piazza 
 Farnese, and the doctor said he had talked himself hoarse 
 and must have liquid refreshment. Poor Tuke looked so 
 dazed that I surmise he has had enough of Art for one 
 afternoon." 
 
 Mrs Waring rose hastily and started to rearrange her big 
 grey hat before an oval mirror. 
 
 Miles stood near and with an air of great seriousness, 
 handed her a pearl-studded hat-pin. 
 
 " That middle curl a little to the right, I think," he said 
 gravely. ^' This is a critical moment. The 'ins' and 'outs' 
 are about to enter. Or — are they both still ' ins ' ? " 
 
 Clio caught his muscular arm and pinched it viciously. 
 
 "You are a hateful tease and I'll let you have it all back, 
 with interest : you may be sure of that." 
 
74 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 " But just now it is I who am paying off a small debt. 
 What business had you to say I might ''fall in love " 
 
 Their eyes met and Clio's colour rose. 
 
 " He knew of whom we were talking," she said to 
 herself. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 DOCTOR DOYENBERT entered the room with 
 characteristic alertness. He was tall and thin, with 
 the thinness born of a continued strain on brain, nerve and 
 muscle. His features were finely cut and of a pure Indian 
 type, and his delicate hands, the fingers long and exaggeratedly 
 tapering, were of Eastern outline : the hands of a Mystic 
 dwelling in the shadows of the Himalayas. 
 
 He wore a dark brown tweed suit, and the coat was tight 
 and carefully buttoned up as the coat of a professional 
 duellist. 
 
 Indeed, the whole man suggested an eternal duel : a 
 combat in which his hungry intelligence watched for oppor- 
 tunities to tear from his fellows some cherished secret. As 
 a neurologist his reputation was European, but in Paris, and 
 in certain circles in Rome, he was equally well-known as an 
 Art Critic of caustic tongue and pen. He presented a 
 great contrast to the big American who accompanied him 
 and a still greater contrast to the fair-haired, perfectly-groomed 
 young Englishman who entered the room behind the older 
 men. Fenton Tuke was in the diplomatic service and had 
 come to Rome to fill the post of secretary at the British 
 Embassy. He was exceedingly good-looking and though 
 he had all the unexpected reserves of his kind he was boyishly 
 enthusiastic on two subjects : the charm and beauty of Mrs 
 Waring and the prowess of Miles Bering. Of the painter's 
 art he knew little or nothing, but so great was his admiration 
 for his physical dominion that he never ceased to sing his 
 praises in and out of season. 
 
 As the three men greeted Jessica and her guest their 
 75 
 
76 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 nationalities stood confessed. Doyenbert, agile and graceful 
 as a snake, kissed Mrs Waring's hand with a gesture of 
 homage almost theatrical and bowed low to Jess. Underwood 
 clasped each small hand in turn, with frank warmth, and 
 Fenton Tuke shook hands quickly and drew himself up as he 
 emitted a smothered How'd do,'* 
 
 Doyenbert sank back into a capacious arm-chair and 
 glanced across the room at Dering, who was busying himself 
 with bottles and glasses which had been brought in by one of 
 the velvet-footed Japs. 
 
 " If your uncle were alive and in my place he would ask 
 a big price for his thirst! " 
 
 Dering laughed, though a shadow passed across his face. 
 What shall it be, doctor? A highball or a cocktail ? " 
 Oh — a highball, by all means. I learned to love them 
 in the Rue de Douai." 
 
 Dering handed him a long, thin glass and then Chu swiftly 
 set a quaintly carved tray between the other men, laid a single 
 rose, of great beauty and framed in glossy leaves, before Mrs 
 Waring, then bowed low and withdrew. 
 
 The doctor lifted his glass greedily and then paused. He 
 glanced at Dering and Underwood. 
 
 " Here's to Jack Fitz," he said, as he held the glass high 
 and then drained it. 
 
 Dering and Underwood followed his example in silence. 
 It was the old toast which had never been omitted at the 
 suppers in the Paris flat. For a moment there was silence 
 and then Mrs Waring — who had been admiring the rose- 
 looked up and said : 
 
 " How on earth do you manage to keep those delightful 
 Japs in such perfect order ? I have never seen such well-trained 
 servants : they do everything just at the right time and in the 
 right way and no one ever seems to give them an order." 
 
 Dering laughed. 
 
 " I don't keep them in order : they just manage 
 themselves." 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 77 
 
 " Are you responsible — then ? Clio had turned, in some 
 surprise, to her hostess, who greeted the question with open 
 ridicule. 
 
 Not at all! Pm only a visitor and Cha and Chu 
 belong to Miles — souls, bodies, thoughts and everything, I 
 think. They understand him, if anyone does, and they study 
 his tastes and moods and his wants and his needs. The 
 queer little creatures seem to exist solely for the purpose of 
 making things agreeable for him." 
 
 " Have you magnetized them ? " 
 
 The painter nodded. 
 
 "That — first: and then I have knocked them about and 
 proved to them that I, and I only, am their Master ! It's 
 the only way to manage servants." 
 
 Clio looked at him straight in the eyes. 
 
 "I don't see that Sapphira was half such a sneak as 
 Ananias ! " 
 
 "I don't suppose there was much to choose between 
 them." 
 
 " Agreed ! And now tell me how you have worked this 
 miracle? In this age when no one can do anything with 
 servants except pay them enormous wages and then do their 
 work, how do you, even you^ manage to possess such 
 treasures ? " 
 
 " I have them with me because they insisted on coming 
 back with me from Japan, and they are treasures — well, 
 really I believe it's because the queer little chaps love me." 
 
 Clio looked at her rose contemplatively. She was thinking 
 that there was something remarkable about the way in which, 
 apparently unconsciously. Miles Bering attracted love. He 
 seemed the comrade, as well as the worshipper, of the little 
 blind god. More than once her friend, Bianca della Rocca, 
 by no means an effusive woman, had spoken in terms of 
 enthusiasm of the Cardinal's affection for the painter and of 
 the strong bond of affection which united her invalid husband 
 to the man who seemed the embodiment of health and 
 
78 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 vigour. The most unexpected people waxed eloquent over 
 Bering and yet, notwithstanding his great charm of manner, 
 there always seemed to be a wall of reserve between him 
 and others — even his most intimate friends. She found herself 
 wondering if that wall was really impregnable ? Could that 
 reserve, inherited and acquired, be broken down — and by 
 whom ? 
 
 Doyenbert had been speaking to Jessica but at that 
 moment he turned round. 
 
 We have just seen your friend Princess Eorizoff. What 
 a woman ! Imperious as Poppaea and quite as beautiful. 
 She whirled across the Piazza in a carriage, with three black 
 horses driven abreast and everyone turned to look at her just 
 as if she were an Empress." 
 
 Clio looked a little confused. A thought, not a pleasant 
 one, had flashed across her mind. 
 
 She hesitated a second, then said : 
 
 **0f course you know that Madame Borizoff has your 
 * Russia'?" 
 
 "Madame Borizoff?" 
 
 Bering's tone expressed such exceeding surprise that 
 Clio's colour rose. She guessed that her friend had purposely 
 refrained from speaking to the painter of his picture. 
 
 "Yes. Some Russian friend sent it to her a day or two 
 ago, I think." 
 
 Boyenbert interfered. 
 
 "Buveen sold it to Comte Boris de Romanoff — he told 
 me so. And it is now in the possession of the Empress of 
 the Villa Borizoff! I wonder what she thinks of it: do you 
 happen to know ? " 
 
 The question was addressed to Mrs Waring but for a 
 second she did not reply; she was bitterly regretting the 
 ungracious omission which had brought that slight frown to 
 Bering's straight brows. Then she said : 
 
 "Of course she is enthusiastic about it. Who could help 
 being thatT 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 79 
 
 Doyenbert's laugh was not quite pleasant. 
 
 " I wish you could have heard some of the things they said 
 about it in Paris." 
 
 " What things ? And who do you mean by * they ' ? " 
 
 Bering — ever quick to recognize unexpressed thoughts — 
 saw that both speakers were, from different causes, irritated. 
 He was about to throw himself into the breach when his 
 attention was arrested by the silent entrance of one of the 
 servants in dark-blue linen. Chu handed him a twisted note 
 and waited with folded hands and downcast eyes. Bering, 
 with a word of apology, opened the note and read it. He 
 looked distressed, even disconcerted. He hesitated and then 
 handed the letter to his sister, who read it and then looked at 
 him for a decision. 
 
 can go alone," she said, speaking very low; "perhaps, 
 I almost think, it would be better ? " 
 
 The bronze of Bering's face was slightly tinged with red 
 and as the twisted paper was returned to him he un- 
 consciously crushed it out of shape. Jessica went on — *M 
 can explain : she really has no right to ask such a thing." 
 
 "No. And for that reason — " Bering wheeled round 
 suddenly. " Mrs Waring, will you be very kind to me ? Will 
 you play hostess for quarter of an hour ? I am called away, 
 and my sister also ? " 
 
 Clio nodded. Then, as Bering and his sister passed out, 
 she looked at Fenton Tuke. 
 
 "Where were you going this morning in such a hurry? 
 To the Bristol ? " 
 
 He made a sign of assent. 
 
 "Yes. Madame de Brissac asked me to dejeuner^ with 
 the Chief, and I sat so long talking to Bering in a cafe that I 
 was awfully late. I felt very much inclined to ask you to give 
 me a lift when you drove by." 
 
 He was sitting very close to Clio, on a low stool, and 
 Underwood sighed impatiently as he watched the two animated 
 faces. There were some years between their ages, but the 
 
8o 
 
 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 widow looked extraordinarily young. Doyenbert looked up 
 sharply. 
 
 " Did you tell Madame de Brissac that it was Bering who 
 delayed you ? ' 
 
 ^' Yes ; I did mention it. ' 
 
 And what did she say?'' 
 
 Oh— lots of things." 
 " Unpleasant ? " 
 
 Rather.'' 
 
 The single word, shot out as from a catapult, seemed 
 composed of equal parts of exasperation and annoyance, and 
 Mrs Waring joined Underwood in a burst of gay laughter. 
 
 "You are worse than a K.C., doctor. You have no mercy 
 on an unhappy witness when you get him into the box." 
 Doyenbert joined in the laugh. 
 
 ^'Je demande pardon^^^ he said. "I had no right to ask 
 questions, but Madame la Comtesse does not agree with my 
 nerves. She says abominable things about Dering and will 
 harm him if she can. Of course he will soon be in such a 
 position that neither she nor anyone like her can hurt him, 
 but all the same mud sticks — if your aim is good and you do 
 not mind soiling your own hands by throwing it." 
 
 "You think he will soon be recognized as a great artist? " 
 Underwood asked the question in a tone of genuine interest 
 which the critic did not fail to appreciate. 
 
 "I do not think. I know. It must come, soonet or 
 later, and I believe it will be much sooner than even he 
 himself suspects. I have my plans. I will not speak of 
 them now, but they march." 
 
 Underwood bent forward with considerable eagerness. 
 
 " I have often wanted to hear you talk about Dering's art. 
 You understand it and you understand him. Your views 
 would be very valuable." 
 
 Doyenbert squared his shoulders and rested his sensitive 
 hands on his knees. 
 
 "He is a genius," he said, "and he is an Irishman: 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 8i 
 
 there you have the germs of the crux. It is the usual thing 
 to call him eccentric — even a poseur^ but those who think he 
 paints otherwise than as he sees se trompent lourdement. His 
 originality is nourished by a determination to express nothing 
 that has not penetrated into his mind and into his heart. His 
 uncle, as you well know, was possessed by rhorreur de tout 
 mensonge^ and Miles is the same. He was the friend and, in 
 a sense, the pupil of Eugene Carriere, and though Carriere 
 walked calmly towards a goal which was to him luminous, 
 he remained always, for those about him, intangible and 
 mysterious as life itself." 
 
 The words were spoken with a sort of suppressed en- 
 thusiasm which kindled a flame in the hearts of the listeners. 
 
 never met Carriere," Underwood said, "but I was at 
 the opening of the Salon of 1906, when his pictures were 
 gathered into one room. I found him hard to understand 
 but his work impressed me greatly." 
 
 " You were there that day ? And you saw those fools — 
 those soulless idiots who stood about and stared ? They did 
 not dare to laugh aloud as they have laughed at Rodin, for 
 Carriere was dead, and the laurel wreaths made them suspect 
 that there must have been something in his pictures besides — 
 fog!" 
 
 "But he did paint things and people in a sort of mist, 
 didn't he? A sort of colourless mist which was very effec- 
 tive ? " Doyenbert fixed his brilliant eyes on the speaker. 
 He was imbued with the idea that the average woman knew 
 nothing of Art. 
 
 **Yes, Mrs Waring, he often enveloped * things and 
 people ' in a sort of mist, and the crowd has always insisted 
 that he did it to make a sensational effect ; just as it accused 
 Puvis de Chavannes of intentionally distorting Nature. What 
 applies to the colour of Carriere applies to the drawing of 
 Puvis : the crowd will never realize that the originality of an 
 artist's language is justified by the amount of perception and 
 thought he is able to express in it." 
 6 
 
82 
 
 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 Underwood drew a long breath. 
 
 **This is splendid," he said warmly. "One cannot follow 
 it all, but you give us something to think about and, in a way, 
 you help us to understand Bering." 
 
 " If you understand the man you will find it easy to 
 understand the artist. Bering has been trained to work on 
 a foundation of big ideas. His art is — or will be when it is 
 perfected — an expression of his communion with the universal 
 human spirit. Those who designate as far fetched Carriere's 
 idea of finding in a single art all the elements of human 
 existence have forgotten that the same idea animated Leonardo 
 da Vinci, Albert Diirer and Michelangelo. Some of the critics 
 in Paris have said — especially in connection with Bering's 
 portrait of myself — that he slavishly follows in the steps of 
 Carriere and does not take the trouble to draw ! But what 
 do these persons understand by le dessin ? Bo they suppose 
 it merely to mean a silhouette which indicates the form of an 
 object? Such artists as Carriere, Ingres and — though he is 
 still only a student — Bering, attack the task of drawing by 
 marking out the prominences, the curves, the hollows and the 
 reliefs, and in that way they bring out the form itself instead 
 of trying to produce it by a line, which is at best only the 
 indication of the form. They worked, and he works, on the 
 lines of the sculptor. 
 
 Mrs Waring was listening intently and as the critic paused, 
 Fenton Tuke, who was still sitting on the low stool, nursing 
 his knees, looked up eagerly. 
 
 " The Chief knows a good deal about Art and he says he 
 believes Bering to be possessed by the madness of genius." 
 
 " * Madness of genius ' ? But that sort of madness does 
 not exist. Lombroso used to insist on something of the sort 
 but the idea is absurd. True genius is order itself : the 
 concentration of well-balanced faculties. Again and again 
 people have declared Rodin's work to be that of an exalte if 
 not of a madman. Now, as a matter of fact, Rodin is a 
 particularly sane man : he is not even a dreamer. He is calm 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 83 
 
 and self-possessed as a mathematician. There is much that 
 is exalted in his work, as in Carriere's, and, in embryo, in 
 Bering's, but it is the exaltation which one finds in Nature, 
 if we know where to look for it." 
 
 "But don't you think that inspiration comes most fre- 
 quently to people who are just a little mad on some subject 
 or another? " 
 
 Clio spoke excitedly and Tuke nodded in approval. 
 Doyenbert wheeled round his chair and faced them. 
 
 Chere Madame^ what do you mean by 'inspiration'?'' 
 She opened wide her star-like eyes. 
 
 "Inspiration? But of course everyone knows what it 
 means. It's the intangible something that urges people to do 
 great and wonderful things." 
 
 " ' The intangible something ' that is supposed to enable 
 an inexperienced student to create a masterpiece in a single 
 night? It is always at night these things happen, I notice. 
 And then the ' inspiration ' of love, of which we hear so much. 
 What does that amount to ? Just this — un homme qui aime 
 trop les femmes est perdu : cela suffii I " 
 
 " I hope, doctor, that that does not always hold good — 
 taking the word femme instead of fem77ies? I cannot help 
 thinking that one of these days our friend Bering will take the 
 love fever — rather badly. He's not a fellow for half measures 
 in anything ; when he falls in love I believe he will do it with 
 all his heart and strength." The doctor emitted his character- 
 istic sniff, which was half a snort. 
 
 "Very likely — and it will be the worst thing that ever 
 happened to him, for I have a certain conviction that he will 
 select the wrong woman. Carriere's wife was necessary to 
 him — she was the complement of his own personality ; but 
 Bering is another type and he is a headstrong beggar." 
 
 Mrs Waring and Tuke were exchanging laughing whispers, 
 and as Underwood glanced at them he noticed that the young 
 man had possessed himself of some violets which had fallen 
 from those at her breast. They seemed very happy and the 
 
84 
 
 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 American shrugged his broad shoulders with an air of 
 unwilling resignation. He forced himself to look away and 
 to take up again the vexed subject of inspiration. 
 
 " Come, doctor, you must not be too cynical. Even if we 
 admit that you are right about the inspiration of love — and I 
 for one am not prepared to admit it — what about the inspira- 
 tion of great deeds and great works? Have you not often 
 watched the eager faces of the enthusiastic young artists who 
 throng the churches and galleries here? Do you not admit 
 that they derive inspiration from what they see ? " 
 
 " I admit that some of them imagine they do ! Oh, yes, I 
 know them well, these wonderful young enthusiasts who haunt 
 the museums. They stand about and stare and then rush 
 out and fall on one's neck, shrieking * Eureka ! We are in- 
 spired. We are transformed. We have acquired a new soul ! 
 A Japanese soul, or a Raphael soul, or a Botticelli soul ! We 
 are going to do wonders with our new souls and our inspira- 
 tions.' I know them very well indeed, these enthusiasts you 
 so much admire, and often I have said to them — * Oh, yes, my 
 young friends, you have indeed acquired a new soul, but it is 
 the soul of a thief!' It was not * inspiration,' believe me, 
 that has taught Bering the essential fact that behind the 
 apparent man it is necessary to seek for the real man. Or 
 that in portrait painting it is necessary to look for the character, 
 which alone decides destiny. Or that it is necessary to do 
 much more than merely copy the superficial aspect of a face. 
 From a close study of Nature and Nature's laws he has 
 learned, or is learning, the truth about Art. He is well 
 aware that the French school, from Clouet to Latour, offers 
 a series of portraits which are spirited and full of delicate 
 observation but none the less social portraits : portraits of men 
 and women who, under the eyes of their fellows, are watching 
 themselves and trying to seem at their best. He has learned 
 that the head is defined by its bony structure : that one must 
 build it up before one can give it life, and that the play of 
 features is only a grimace which is isolated from the permanent 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 85 
 
 character. He is a great admirer of the French school, but 
 I base my belief on his future on the fact that he has realized 
 the essential and cast aside conventions. He is still a student 
 but even now it is necessary for him, when painting a portrait, 
 to try and surprise in his model everything that is profound 
 and essential : everything that makes for character. Already 
 he has the habit of watching his model until he forgets him- 
 self: until he drops his mask and goes back to the freedom of 
 solitude.'' 
 
 "By Jove!'' 
 
 The exclamation broke from Fenton Tuke and he sat up 
 very erect. Doyenbert put up his glass and looked at the 
 boyish face. 
 
 " You are thinking — ? " he said questioningly. 
 
 " I was just thinking that I am not at all sure anyone has 
 the right to take anyone else by surprise like that." 
 
 " Of course no one has the right." Clio spoke with great 
 decision. "No one — even Miles Bering — has the right to 
 poke his way behind the scenes in that way. When people 
 make up their minds to have a portrait done they make up 
 their minds how they want to look, and if they are paying for 
 the deal they have the right to declare." 
 
 There was a general laugh and Underwood looked at the 
 sparkling face with eyes full of admiration. 
 
 "There is a good deal to be said for that point of view," 
 he said. " After all, it is not the artist who has to live with 
 the portrait. Great indeed is my admiration for your learn- 
 ing, but I must say I agree, in the main, with Mrs Waring and 
 Tuke. I think people have the right to decide how they wish 
 to look in a portrait, and if they chose to adopt what you call 
 a * social ' appearance, I can see no real reason why the artist 
 should not reproduce that appearance." 
 
 " It has never occurred to you that if painting is to become 
 nothing more than an exact reproduction of things actually 
 seen, the Art will disappear when photography in colour 
 becomes perfect ? " 
 
86 
 
 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 Photography? But that is, of course, quite another 
 thing. A merely mechanical process which has very little to 
 do with art at all." 
 
 ''A process which is sometimes not considered sufficiently 
 flattering, and so the Art of the fashionable portrait-painter is 
 called in.'' 
 
 "That is very severe.'' 
 
 " My dear sir, it is the simple truth. The very last thing 
 the average person desires is to be painted as he, or she, really 
 is. It is a mask — of one kind or another — that is demanded, 
 and I have already said that it is useless to ask Miles Bering 
 to paint masks for, thank God, he does not know how to do it." 
 
 At that moment the door opened and Bering came in 
 alone. 
 
 A thousand apologies. My sister has been called away 
 to see some one, a friend who is ill and alone." 
 
 Mrs Waring looked up quickly. 
 
 " Nina Cantalli ? " she asked. 
 
 Bering nodded. 
 She is very ill ? Seriously ? " 
 
 "The throat trouble is serious. I am afraid she will not 
 Sjing again, at least, not for a long time to come." 
 
 Clio's eyes met those of Tuke. The same thought flashed 
 across both minds. The pretty singer had already cost the 
 painter something. He and his sister had done much for her, 
 and Bering personally had used his influence to get her 
 engagements — in Paris and in Rome. His name had been 
 linked with hers, and in no kindly way. Men, and women 
 too, had not hesitated to sneer at the blindness of the sister 
 and the audacity of the brother. Prince Platofl" had set the 
 ball rolling and, more than once, his friend the Comtesse de 
 Brissac had kept it in rapid motion. Miles Bering was a 
 man to be loved or hated. His personality was too distinctive 
 to admit of half measures : people were with him, heart and 
 soul or — they were against him. And even those who 
 liked him best often found him hard to understand. He was 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 87 
 
 a prince of good fellows but he was able, in a moment, to 
 close the doors behind which dwelt his real thoughts and 
 feelings. And those doors were impassive as iron. 
 
 Underwood had heard something of the gossip about 
 Bering and the singer and, to make a diversion, he broke in : 
 should like very much to visit your studio if Mrs 
 Waring has no objection? I understand that the doctor's 
 portrait is there now, and I am particularly anxious to see it." 
 
 Miles assented at once and held the door open for Mrs 
 Waring to pass out. 
 
 **Jess hopes you won't think her very rude ?'^ he said as 
 he walked by her side down the wide stone corridor and 
 paused a moment at an arched window overlooking the little 
 garden fringing the Tiber. " That poor girl is in a sad state 
 and cannot bear to be alone — or with strangers. '^ 
 
 Clio looked round stealthily. Then, seeing that the three 
 men had not yet left the sitting-room, she said impulsively : 
 
 **You and Jessica are just too good for this wicked old 
 world ! You have lovely thoughts and ideas about things, 
 and you never realize that other people are made of different 
 stuff. Of course I know it's not my business, but really — 
 really people have been saying rather awful things about Nina 
 Cantalli — and you. I don't know if you mind about it 
 but I have always wanted to tell you." 
 
 Miles stood still and looked down at her : very seriously 
 and as if in contemplation. Then he turned his eyes, dark 
 and dreamy, towards the great laurel bushes which surrounded 
 and almost hid the basin of the fountain in the centre of the 
 garden. For several moments he was silent. Then he said 
 quietly : 
 
 " I don't belong to the fashionable world but you can 
 hardly suppose that I'm entirely in ignorance of what goes 
 on round me ? You can hardly suppose that I'm unaware 
 of the fact that here, and in Paris too, people have paid me 
 the compliment of taking for granted that I find my sister's 
 interest in young artists very convenient? That I have, 
 
88 
 
 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 naturally without hesitation, sent her out to pick up rare and 
 seductive morsels for my personal delectation ? " 
 
 The colour rose in Clio's face. 
 
 '*But that's a horrible way of putting it." 
 
 "Very horrible but the true way." 
 
 There was a pause. Then Clio said inconsequently : 
 But this girl is really wonderfully attractive." 
 
 " * Et tu Brute ' ? " 
 
 The trite old saying passed through lips that were curved 
 in a baffling smile and the woman felt confused. 
 
 " Of course / have never said anything. I don't believe 
 I have even thought very much, but all the same one cannot 
 get away from the fact that human nature is human nature." 
 
 "And you designate * human' an action of which a devil 
 might well be ashamed ? " 
 
 "Mr Bering!" 
 
 There was indignation and surprise and something like 
 fear in the exclamation, but voices sounded in the distance 
 and Miles made some laughing remark to Doyenbert as he 
 led the way down the corridor. 
 
 The studio was immense — one of those spacious rooms 
 with which Rome abounds. 
 
 It had a carved ceiling overlaid with stucco and the walls, 
 almost bare, were covered with stretched canvas of the same 
 grey-blue tint as that which covered the walls of Jessica's 
 sitting-room. On the floor there were some large rush-mats 
 and a few rugs of great size and rare beauty. Near the high 
 windows which were quaintly curtained in tussor silk and 
 Indian muslin there were two pedestals of carved ebony on 
 which stood pots of curious design and gorgeous colours. 
 There were many comfortable arm-chairs of plaited canes and 
 rushes, one or two solid tables covered with papers of various 
 kinds, and two upright easels. Standing against the sides of 
 the room there were several big cases which held sketches 
 and studies, and at one end a light wood frame had been 
 fastened in the wall to hold a dozen or more broadswords and 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 89 
 
 foils ; close by, in professional style, there were shelves, with 
 closed compartments, for masks and jackets, etc. 
 
 It was a thoroughly workmanlike room, in spite of its air 
 of comfort and aesthetic charm. 
 
 When Bering held open the great door, arched and 
 roughly carved, for Clio to enter, she stood still and laid her 
 hand on his arm to indicate silence. One of the Japanese 
 servants was standing by a window, arranging a few branches 
 of Gloire de Dijon roses in a porcelain pot, and he made an 
 attractive picture. The little figure, lithe and graceful, was 
 costumed in a short linen jacket, with wide sleeves, long tight 
 drawers reaching to the ankles, of the same dark blue tint 
 as the coat, and white digitated stockings which showed up 
 brilliantly against the straw sandals laced with palmetto-fibre. 
 His whole attention was concentrated on the flowers and as 
 he lightly posed one gracious branch, heavy with golden 
 blossoms and dark green leaves, in such a manner that it 
 communed deliciously with the delicate tints of the tussor 
 curtains in the background, he stepped back and un- 
 consciously clasped his hands. Bering looked down at Mrs 
 Waring and smiled. He made with his Hps a curious little 
 noise that resembled the twitter of a bird and Chu turned and 
 saw him. The little figure in blue glided silently towards the 
 door and there stood motionless for a second or two. Again 
 Bering made a soft, bird call and Chu vanished. 
 
 " Bid you ever see anything Hke it ! " 
 
 Clio Waring was standing in the middle of the room and 
 staring at the painter with wide-open eyes. Is that how you 
 talk to them ? 
 
 "Sometimes." 
 
 " But how did you make them understand ? " 
 
 " I ? Oh — I don't know that I had very much to do with 
 that. Chu used to live with my friend, Takeda, in Yedo, and 
 Takeda was an extraordinary chap in many ways : he had no 
 end of funny little tricks, and one of them was a sort of bird 
 language which he invented himself. I picked it up, 
 
90 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 more or less, and Chu understands it better than spoken 
 words." 
 
 " But how do you do it ? " 
 
 Bering laughed. He stood straight before her and bent 
 down his head. 
 
 "Just imagine you are going to give someone a kiss. Not 
 me, of course''' — this in answer to her slightly heightened 
 colour — " but any worthy person who may suggest himself to 
 you ! Now press the tip of your tongue very lightly against 
 your teeth and do this." He made, very softly and, at first, 
 slowly, a series of little twittering sounds. Clio tried to 
 imitate them but failed dismally. Again he gave the lesson, 
 and Fenton Tuke looked on with eager interest. 
 
 "I can't do it," she said petulantly. "I believe you have 
 something in your mouth. No one could make those noises 
 just with their lips." 
 
 The painter's brows rose in an arch of interrogation. 
 
 " Don't be too sure about that. Lips are tricky things. 
 One never can tell what they may do, or leave undone." 
 
 Clio threw up her head and walked away from the two men. 
 
 With an air of great determination she joined Doyenbert 
 and the American, who were standing before an easel to 
 which was clamped the full-length portrait of a man. It was 
 a strange picture : sombre and restrained, yet full of vigour. 
 It was the neurologist, with his soul laid bare ! The form 
 and features seemed barely defined, but the spirit of the man 
 stood confessed : the deathless vitality, the restless curiosity, 
 the Oriental insensibility to pain, in others or in himself. It 
 had been called a ''portrait of nerves," and the title, given in 
 contempt, was sufficiently apt. Of colour, as colour is gener- 
 ally understood, there was none. The mysterious brown 
 figure — exaggeratedly tall and emaciated — melted into a back- 
 ground of velvet blackness. The face, in which the restless 
 nerves seemed painfully close to the surface, was pallid and 
 brown, and so were the thin hands. The whole picture gave 
 an impression of tumult and unrest. 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 91 
 
 Underwood looked at it long and steadily. 
 
 It is amazing," he said at last. But do you like it ? 
 Doyenbert laughed. 
 
 " Like it ? I should say so. It is a masterpiece, and if 
 the man who painted it ever permits himself to become 
 * popular' I shall not hesitate to strangle him with my own 
 hands. That^ my dear sir, is a portrait It represents the 
 person it is intended to represent. It represents me I It is 
 not pretty. Certainly, it is not amiable ; it is not even * nice.' 
 But am I — I myself, in real life — either pretty, or amiable, or 
 'nice'? You would not expect much sentiment from that 
 man'' — pointing to the picture — ''but would you look for 
 sentiment in me? You would double-lock the chest in 
 w^hich you keep your secrets in the presence of our brown 
 friend — do you imagine that / have not trained my powers of 
 observation? It is a masterpiece; just that. Miles Bering 
 has to keep up to that level, or devote himself to wood- 
 carving, which he does fairly well." 
 
 Bering was standing a little apart, his hands in his pockets, 
 and on his face a distinctly amused expression. His dark 
 eyes wandered slowly from one to the other of his visitors 
 faces. Underwood was silenced, Tuke was afraid to venture 
 an opinion, but Clio broke in ; 
 
 " I see what you meant when you decried ' social portraits.' 
 There is nothing 'social' about that I The doctor grinned 
 delightedly and shook his head. Clio went on. " How did 
 it come here — this portrait? You hadn't it the other day 
 when I came in ? " 
 
 Bering, to whom the words were addressed, shook his 
 head, but before he could speak the doctor interrupted. 
 
 " It arrived from Paris yesterday. I sent up for it. I 
 wanted to show it to my old friend. Cardinal Santanini, and 
 — to one or two other people. It is going to the Vatican 
 to-morrow morning." 
 
 Clio glanced at him meaningly ; she guessed his intention, 
 but even she did not care to try to force his confidence. 
 
92 
 
 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 Doyenbert, who had said all he intended to say about the 
 portrait, let his restless eyes roam round the big room : suddenly 
 they remained stationary, and he crossed rapidly to one of 
 the windows. 
 
 thought so! Miles, what can you be thinking of? 
 Those pots are genuine Satsuma, they ought to be under 
 glass. They are almost priceless — these old seventeenth- 
 century things, and you leave them about here to get knocked 
 down and smashed to pieces." 
 
 Bering approached and patted the excited speaker on the 
 shoulder. 
 
 "Who is going to knock them down? And don't you 
 think they are very much more honoured by being permitted 
 to carry those glorious roses than they would be if shut up in 
 a glass case ? What's the good of having jiice things if you 
 don't use them ? I suppose you would have an apoplectic fit 
 if I told you that I stick my brushes into a Kioto tea-bowl 
 which carries Ninsei's name? It is really a lovely thing — I 
 must show it to Mrs Waring." 
 
 With the light step of an athlete he quickly crossed the 
 room and Doyenbert, exasperated, looked at the little group 
 left behind. He lightly touched the pot in which the branch 
 of roses had been so carefully arranged. 
 
 "That thing alone is worth a small fortune," he said with 
 irritation. "The design is Tangen's and it's almost impossible 
 to get this ware now — in Europe. That is Bering all over. 
 He is Irish to the backbone, as his uncle used to say : he has 
 no idea of the value of things or money." 
 
 While he was speaking the painter had returned and was 
 standing just behind Clio, holding in his hand a small bowl. 
 He looked at the doctor with a whimsical smile. 
 
 " Bon't be so sure about that. I know very well the value 
 of things and money : they are worth just what pleasure, or 
 benefit, or comfort they give. The idea of shutting up pretty 
 things in a museum, in glass cases, is an atrocious one. All 
 very well for the tourists, but do you think these things, the 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 93 
 
 children of active, cultured brains, have no feeling? That 
 they — who have absorbed so much life from their creators — 
 are dead ? Not at all. They are all alive in their own way 
 and they appreciate affection and admiration. Chu loves that 
 old pot and he loves those roses : do you think, my dear 
 twentieth-century master of nerves, you could have made that 
 effect?" 
 
 Doyenbert gave a short laugh and seized the bowl. It was 
 small and of a pale buff ware, and the "crackle" was fine as 
 a geometrical drawing. At one side, low down, there was a 
 little seal bearing the two characters which represented the 
 name of the famous Ninsei. The critic looked at the bowl on 
 every side and then, with a snort of disgust, handed it back. 
 He wheeled round, threw the contents of one of the large 
 cartons of studies on a table and turned over the papers 
 impatiently. 
 
 Mrs Waring and Fenton Tuke bent over the bowl in 
 eager interest and Bering explained to them something of the 
 mysteries of the application of coloured enamels. Underwood 
 was standing near them when his attention was arrested by a 
 call from the doctor. 
 
 " Come here," he said, " I want to show you something. 
 You remember what I said to you this morning, at the Villa 
 Borghese, about the Madonna hand. Well — here you have it 
 in perfection. That rascal over there is a fool where money is 
 concerned, but he has talent ! Look at these studies ; look 
 at the tender beauty of that upturned palm ; look at the 
 mother-caress of those little fingers? Those are Madonna 
 hands — pure and simple. You seemed to doubt me when I 
 said that human hands have no secrets for those who know 
 how to read them. Look here — only a rough sketch, but the 
 type is clearly indicated. It is not so much the pose as the 
 hand itself — the shape, the general outline. The woman who 
 owns these hands — and these, and these^ belong to the mother 
 type — absolutely. " 
 
 The doctor had talked so excitedly and so fast that Mrs 
 
94 
 
 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 Waring's attention was attracted : she and Tuke approached 
 the table and Bering followed. When he saw the sketches 
 a slight flush rose to his face. Doyenbert turned to him 
 eagerly. 
 
 "Are these the hands of an Italian model? " The painter 
 shook his head. 
 
 "No. They are not the hands of a 'model* at all." 
 Something in his tone made Doyenbert look at him sharply. 
 
 "No? "he began and then pulled up. He looked again 
 at the sketches and back at Bering. Then he tumbled the 
 papers together in confusion. 
 
 "I have an appointment," he said. "I must go, if Mrs 
 Waring will excuse me?" 
 
 Simultaneously everyone found it necessary to leave, and 
 in the little bustle of departure Clio came to Bering's side. 
 In her hand she held one of the studies. 
 
 "Is there any mystery about these?" she asked softly. 
 " You didn't seem very anxious to disclose the name of the 
 person who owns these bewitching little hands ? " 
 
 She anticipated that he would say they were studies of 
 Nina Cantalli's hands and she intended to avail herself of the 
 opportunity to give yet another word of warning : her amaze- 
 ment was ludicrous when he replied, very quietly : 
 
 "No, there's no mystery. They are studies of Miss 
 Hilliard's hands." 
 
 " Miss Hilliard — the girl who is staying with the Comtesse 
 de Brissac ? " 
 
 " Yes. Why are you so surprised ? " 
 
 Clio was really disconcerted. 
 
 "Oh, I don't know at all. It does seem rather surprising. 
 I never would have dreamt of considering her in that light. 
 It seems so impossible." 
 
 "What seems impossible? That Nature should have 
 created her in what the doctor calls *the pure Madonna 
 mould'?" 
 
 " But really ! You cannot think that ? " 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 95 
 
 " But you are looking at her hands ? Do you think they 
 are out of drawing? 
 
 course not, but . . She looked up and met his 
 
 eyes alight with mischievous amusement. The suspicion 
 that there was malice underlying the mischief gave her 
 courage. " If s no affair of mine, but if she is the Madonna 
 type I think it's about time we had a few new dictionaries 
 compiled : these ultra-modern meanings to old-fashioned words 
 are beyond my understanding/' 
 
 You know Miss HiUiard very well ? " 
 
 " I don't know her at all, but I've seen her." 
 
 "Her hands?" 
 In gloves, of course." 
 
 Bering threw back his head and laughed delightedly. 
 What a delicious little woman you are. It puts one in 
 the best of good humours just to remember that you are 
 alive ! " She was prepared to be indignant. 
 
 *^You may say what you please, but I'm certain you've 
 made a mistake this time. She is one of the prettiest girls I 
 have ever seen, really lovely I think, but it's the most far- 
 fetched Idea to make out that she was intended by Nature to 
 be *a good mother'! I'm very sure she wouldn't thank you 
 if she knew the role you had assigned to her." 
 
 " But I haven't assigned any role to her ? I am going to 
 paint her portrait, and these sketches are studies of her hands, 
 that's all." 
 
 *^But you profess to be a judge of hands and to tell all 
 sorts of secret things from them ; and I've heard you say that 
 certain hands indicate the presence of certain qualities, etc., 
 etc. You told Gabrielle Borizoff that she had the hands of 
 an idealist, and I don't believe she even understands the 
 meaning of the word ideal ! And now these — " she pointed 
 to the sketches slightingly. One doesn't like to think one 
 has been made a fool of; but really I shall soon begin to 
 believe that you're not quite such a wonderful person as 
 you're supposed to be ! " 
 
96 
 
 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 When Bering came back to the studio, after having seen 
 his guests off, he crossed to one of the open windows. 
 
 In the already creeping twilight the garden looked strange 
 and mysterious. As the aftermath of a glorious sunset cast 
 fierce flashes of red-gold against the blackness of the cypress 
 trees they seemed like wraiths of Nero's human torches, 
 standing out, sombre and defiant, against a veil of deep blue. 
 From a tangled confusion of laurels and orange-trees came a 
 monotonous murmur of trickling waters, for under the shadow 
 of high walls a little fountain whispered to the violets that lay 
 about its sunken basin. In the evening stillness Bering 
 seemed to hear a multitude of voices— low but insistent : 
 shadow hands seemed stretched out to draw him into the past 
 — into the Golden Age, when Alessandro Farnese, the Magni- 
 ficent, had built up his palace, close by; when Julius II. had 
 formed the proud ambition to make of the Via Giulia the most 
 superb thoroughfare in all the City Beautiful. 
 
 The voice of Rome — the Rome of the Caesars and of the 
 great Princes of the Church, was always ringing in the painter's 
 ears ; he was a willing listener and, to those who know how to 
 listen, the Eternal City never fails to speak. 
 
 Bering was a passionate lover of Nature ; he had spoken 
 but the truth when he said that he would not willingly give 
 up his early morning walk to the gardens of his friend : a walk 
 which took him away from the awakening City and out beyond, 
 where geraniums climb about the old walls of deserted houses 
 and where the wattles form thick hedges. It was always a 
 delight to him to watch the City awakening under the pale 
 gold rays of a rising sun and to see afar the living carpets 
 of emerald and sapphire and softest brown on her famous 
 hills. 
 
 In the early morning and at the hour of twilight he loved 
 Rome best, and as he stood by the open window his brain 
 was weaving delicious dreams. He was a poet at heart, and 
 within him, as yet only partly realized, lay the germs of great 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 97 
 
 Lover. Fastidious to the point of exaggeration he was, in 
 many ways, simple as a child, with a child's intuitive apprecia- 
 tion of things that were genuine. He had known and 
 admired, passionately in more cases than one, many women, 
 but he had not, so far, met with the woman he could love : 
 the woman who must be his wife. At least, he thought not ! 
 A fortnight before he could have spoken with certainty, 
 but now — a girl's face, mutinous and often mocking, haunted 
 his waking thoughts ; little white hands, with pink palms and 
 gleaming shell-like nails that owed much to art — tangled the 
 threads of his dreams ; a faint, sweet perfume, subtle, enervat- 
 ing, incensed the shrine of his imagination, and made his 
 pulses throb. 
 
 He was a fervent worshipper of Nature, and to this mock- 
 ing girl Nature seemed but a poor, antiquated bungler, whose 
 unfinished work called for the constant presence of Art? 
 
 Very early in life he had built up in his imagination an 
 ideal — the ideal of the woman who was to share his life, and 
 to crown it. He was a man of strong will and it rarely 
 happened that he wavered, in word or deed, but, within a 
 fleeting fortnight, something unexpected had come into his 
 life and he could not get away from it. He could not have 
 said whether it brought him more of pleasure or of appre- 
 hension ; only he knew it brought him unrest. 
 
 Down below, beyond the colonnaded loggia, lay the Tiber. 
 That sullen flood which had witnessed the triumph of the 
 City Beautiful, and which seemed so desperately weary of 
 laving the dust of what had once been world-famous. Some 
 solitary stone-pines were silhouetted against the darkening sky. 
 The painter leaned against the window and peered into the 
 quivering shadows. An echo came to him of words spoken 
 the day before by a famous Italian poet-dramatist who was his 
 intimate friend. " Cher ami^ you are an iconoclast and a 
 path-finder : from the dust of broken idols you can, if you so 
 desire, create others — more adorable, if different." He had 
 smiled at the phrase but it came back to him as he communed 
 7 
 
98 
 
 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 with the shadows. A pathfinder " ? He closed his dark eyes 
 dreamily and invited the vision of pale hands of rose-tipped 
 ivory, with lines that cried aloud of perilous contradictions and 
 little shell-nails whose brilliancy put to shame the gleaming 
 stones on the rings that weighed down the slender fingers. 
 " The mother type ? " Doyenbert had spoken with knowledge 
 and certainty and a smile flickered over the painter's face. 
 His colour rose a little and he turned away. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 HE Comtesse de Brissac was occupying a comfortable 
 
 J suite of rooms at the Hotel Bristol. She had, since her 
 arrival in Rome, made many additions to the furniture and 
 decorations. Several fine pictures and pieces of priceless old 
 china had been sent over from the Villa Platoff. Her sur- 
 roundings were luxurious and sufficiently picturesque, but she 
 was dissatisfied. She had secretly cherished the idea that, 
 now that she had accepted the position of chaperon to her 
 young cousin, she could pass another winter at the Villa 
 Platoff. She had not, held back by memories of certain scenes 
 which had followed on her last prolonged visit to Platoff's 
 house, actually suggested the idea, but she felt certain it would 
 be realized. Great then was her disappointment when Platoff 
 himself engaged the suite at the Bristol and interested himself 
 in her installation. She was a woman of imperious temper, 
 audacious to the point of impertinence, but she did not dare 
 to oppose the wishes of the man she loved. She knew, though 
 she would not acknowledge it, even in her thoughts, that her 
 hold on Serge Platoff was weakening. She amused him — 
 still ; and they had been close friends for so long that they 
 had many mutual interests. 
 
 He still paid her marked attention, rarely allowing a day to 
 pass without seeing her, but her love for him — the one genuine 
 emotion of her life — made her ever on the watch, and she 
 knew that his cruel, critical eyes often rested on her now in 
 contemplation. When he looked at her she felt her years. 
 She realized that while it had been amusing to find an 
 Englishwoman in the springtime of life with the manners and 
 morals of a Parisian Cafi Chantant artist, it was quite another 
 
 99 
 
100 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 matter when the woman was Hearing the uncertain age. 
 It had been unexpected and diverting while her life was still 
 in spring, but now — when summer was beginning to make way 
 for autumn : when she was beginning to find it necessary to 
 consider the arrangements of the blinds and curtains : when 
 she could no longer watch the sun rise after a cotillon ? 
 
 It was still amusing — perhaps. But the quality of the 
 amusement was slowly changing. In those days of springtide 
 he had laughed with her. And now ? 
 
 She bit her lips until the blood came as she remembered 
 some words spoken by a woman she hated — Princess Borizoff. 
 They had been addressed to Platoff, in the salon of the 
 Duchessa della Rocca. 
 
 " For men age may become an apotheosis, for women it 
 can only mean a debacle. 
 
 Muriel de Brissac looked across the room to where the 
 Russian was standing looking out of a window. 
 
 "I am certain your sister has said things to the della 
 Roccas," she said abruptly. "The Duchessa saluted me very 
 coldly to day, and she has not invited me to any of her dinners 
 this season. Of course, her big reception on the 20th means 
 nothing. She has asked everyone she knows to that." 
 
 Platoff turned and looked at her. He was smiling. 
 
 "Of course Nadine has *said things,' chere amie. How 
 could you expect otherwise ? I warned you, you will remem- 
 ber, more than once? I told you she was an observant 
 woman. You elected to take for granted that because she 
 said nothing, then — she saw nothing ! It is quite English, that 
 supreme disregard of the convenances^ but it is not convenient." 
 
 " The * convenances ' ? Well, really Serge, (^est trop fort fa I 
 And your sister ? Do you pose her as a model of virtue ? " 
 He allowed his glass to drop from his eye and before replying 
 he carefully polished it with his handkerchief. 
 
 "Were we discussing virtue? My memory plays me 
 tricks : I thought we were speaking of the co?ive?iances ? " 
 Their eyes met and his smile deepened. " You are looking 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS loi 
 
 very well to-day," he said as he approached the table where 
 she was sitting, ^*that little note of black is admirably 
 effective.'* 
 
 It was quite true that she was looking well that afternoon. 
 She was wearing an audacious Tanagra robe of leaf green 
 crepe that displayed every curve of her superb figure. She was 
 not a notably tall woman and her slender waist made her full 
 bust look almost out of proportion, but she was finely formed 
 and her carriage was perfect. She walked with a springy step 
 and a subtle swing of the hips which recalled the movements 
 of a Spanish dancer. 
 
 She was not, strictly speaking, a pretty w^oman, but her 
 dark blue eyes, fringed with black lashes, were effective in 
 shape and capable of varied expression, and when her full red 
 lips parted they disclosed little teeth of dazzling whitness, even 
 as rows of matched pearls. Her hair was thick and henna 
 tinted and her straight brows were quite black. Most women 
 considered her unduly remarkable looking but she had genius 
 in matters of dress — from the Parisian point of view. 
 
 She laughed up into Platoff's face and lightly touched the 
 long black quill which cut the dead green of her toque. 
 
 " Yes. I think it isn't bad ! " Then her face changed and 
 she stretched out her ungloved hand until it rested on that 
 of the man. I wonder," she said slowly, "why you take so 
 much trouble to ridicule that Bering man before Violet ? Do 
 you know, I think it would be a splendid thing if she fell in 
 love with him. Her aunt would be delighted — I'm certain 
 she had something of the kind in her mind when she made 
 such a point of that portrait being done — and Violet's future 
 would be settled. Of course I know the man is tiresome and 
 2^ poseur^ but he's clever ; lots of people think he will become 
 celebrated — really, I mean." 
 
 She was looking at a curious ring on Platofl's little finger 
 as she spoke and she did not see his face. It was perhaps 
 just as well ; his expression might have given her food for 
 thought. Hate flashed across the depths of the cynical eyes 
 
102 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 and with the hate — desire. For a single instant the 
 Russian resembled a wild animal disturbed at the moment 
 it was preparing to spring upon its prey. 
 
 When Muriel de Brissac, surprised at the silence, looked 
 up he was again smiling. 
 
 " So even you have succumbed to that powerful anaesthetic, 
 Bluff ? You find it impossible to resist the mystic phrases 
 and occult words which express the New Art? You really 
 believe that this fellow, educated in an unknown village in 
 Ireland, the nephew of a Fenian rascal who was kicked out 
 of his own country, is going to become 'celebrated'? You 
 really believe that people who understand and appreciate true 
 Art are going to make a holocaust of their paintings, the works 
 of known masters, to give place to the fogs and meaningless 
 mists of this self-sufficient reformer? Of course I am not 
 materially concerned in your arrangements for the future of 
 your cousin, but I am of opinion that Weston Hilliard will not 
 thank you very warmly if you decide to countenance such a 
 sacrifice." 
 
 Madame de Brissac looked at him search ingly. 
 But why do you speak so bitterly? Why do you dislike 
 him so much ? You went out of your way this afternoon to 
 draw Violet's attention to the fact that he was going into the 
 hotel where that Cantalli girl is staying?" 
 
 " Chere^ you are so delightfully exaggerative ! I did not 
 go out of my way at all. I merely mentioned the fact that it 
 was the hotel which has been made famous by the presence 
 of Mademoiselle Cantalli, and — that Mr Bering was entering 
 hurriedly. When one is out driving and sitting opposite a 
 jeime fille one must try to find something to say and so 
 many subjects are considered unsuitable?" 
 
 Yes ? " Madame de Brissac continued to look at her 
 visitor through half-closed eyes. " It's quite easy to under- 
 stand Weston's possible, or probable, view of the affair. He's 
 always hard up and, naturally enough, would expect some 
 personal advantage from Violet s marriage — but you ? You're 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 103 
 
 different? You've nothing to gain and nothing to lose. Why 
 do you feel so strongly about the matter ? " 
 
 *' May it not be that I take an interest — -cousinly, shall we 
 say — in your young relative ? That point of view would not 
 seem entirely unnatural ? " 
 
 ^* Absolutely and entirely unnatural. I don't understand 
 it, and I'm very tired of the whole thing. I should never 
 have consented to take charge of Violet if I had not supposed 
 that having her with me would give me more — freedom. 
 People have always been such idiots, saying detestable things 
 and worrying poor Henri to death. He thought it would 
 make everything right to have this girl in the house, and 
 Weston wanted it very much and so I consented ; but it has 
 been no end of a bother and the game is not worth the 
 candle. I'm sure this man will make quite a lot of money 
 and I don't see why she shouldn't marry him. I don't 
 want her here and you can't want her here ] as for Weston 
 — it doesn't matter, I've done more than enough for him 
 already, and Henri would of course agree to anything I 
 suggested." 
 
 Platoff arranged his single glass with great care and stood 
 before her with his hands lightly clasped behind his back. 
 He was a particularly graceful man and the outline of his high 
 forehead was noble. He wore a pale grey suit and in his 
 buttonhole there was a waxen gardenia. 
 
 " Why be precipitate ? The girl gives you very little 
 trouble — really. And she is an excellent foil ! Besides — I 
 have a little plan. It is only in embryo but something may 
 come of it — a little later on." 
 
 A plan ? You are thinking of arranging a marriage for 
 Violet — you?^^ 
 
 She spoke with eagerness and in her deep blue eyes there 
 was the light of greed. Platoff was a power in his own 
 country and — Russians were proverbially rich. She looked 
 at him questioningly and there was on his face a baffling 
 expression that made her smile and then laugh outright. He 
 
104 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 had some deep scheme on hand she thought; something 
 which would benefit her, 
 
 " I have never thought of you as a match-maker, but who 
 knows, you may be immensely successful ! You have my 
 blessing on the ' plan ' — whatever it may be." 
 
 She was sitting facing the light and as she spoke she threw 
 back her head and laughed. Platoff looked at her closely. 
 His keen eyes detected tiny lines about her mouth and chin, 
 inevitable heralds of the passage of time, and it occurred to 
 him to speak to her of the wisdom of his old friend, Sarah 
 Bernhardt, who had made ultra-high collars the rage when 
 she herself needed them. He was naturally cruel ; it gave 
 him pleasure to inflict suffering which could not easily be 
 resented. He still found Muriel de Brissac amusing, and 
 custom had attached him to her ; but the day was past when 
 she had had power to influence him. Nevertheless he knew 
 that it would not be wise to vex her — just then. He had, as 
 he had said, a plan. 
 
 He was still looking down at her when the door opened 
 and a girl entered quickly : she was carrying in her hand a 
 loose bunch of roses and she laid a note on the table before 
 her cousin as she smiled at the Russian. 
 
 Violet Hilliard was extraordinarily attractive and in a 
 subtle way. Her beauty of form and feature was undeniable, 
 but her charm lay deeper than that. Platoff, an experienced 
 judge of women, thought she was more perfectly finished than 
 any other feminine creature of his acquaintance. " Finish 
 was the word that always presented itself when he thought of 
 her. 
 
 She was still wearing her outdoor things and the tailor- 
 made suit of dark blue serge was very flattering to her slight 
 figure : it was richly braided in black silk and she was wearing, 
 thrown off her shoulders, a scarf of black fox ; a cap of the 
 same fur was pressed down over her wonderful pale gold hair ; 
 a foam of creamy lace showed itself where the coat opened in 
 front, and at her breast she had a cluster of dark crimson roses 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 105 
 
 which seemed almost purple in the changing light. A faint, 
 subtle perfume hovered round her, and as she moved a cluster 
 of golden toys — purse, notebook, powder-box and heaven 
 knows what besides — hanging from a chain at her wrist, gave 
 out a tinkling sound as of miniature bells. Her feet and hands 
 were small, delicately shaped as those of an Andalusian woman, 
 and her beautiful eyes had a peculiarly candid, almost child- 
 like, expression — unexpected as fascinating. In dress and 
 manner she was a finished woman of the world, the antithesis 
 of a jeune fille from the foreign point of view, and this fact 
 lent piquancy to a gaze which had been likened to that of a 
 modern Vestal Virgin. 
 
 The Russian looked at her through half-closed eyes and it 
 flashed into his mind that she would look superb in the famous 
 Platoff jewels. She was so tall and lily-like — swaying as she 
 walked like a slender sapling touched by a baby wind. She 
 was essentially, even exaggeratedly, modern, and yet there was 
 something in her beauty that suggested mystery. When he 
 looked at her Platoff understood Nero's passion for the Vestal, 
 Rubia. When he looked at her he felt that he himself was 
 actually in love. He who had all his life mocked at the 
 valiant little boy with the quivering wings and restless arrows ; 
 who had so often declared that the desire of the eyes expressed 
 the limits of that emotion which the poets called **Love." 
 
 Once before he had met and passionately desired a girl 
 who had seemed half an angel, half an accomplished woman 
 of the world — Nina Cantalli, the singer. He had desired her 
 and she had been stolen from him at the moment when his 
 golden nets had almost closed round her. Stolen — and by 
 the man he hated and affected to despise : the painter who 
 had no place in society and whose role was that of a charlatan. 
 
 No one had been present at the interview between Bering 
 and the Prince — the interview in which the painter had torn 
 away the mask from Platoff's life and laid it bare in all its 
 subtle impurity ; in which he had threatened to make public 
 certain damning facts connected with that life. 
 
io6 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 The meeting had taken place in the Russian's hotel in 
 Paris, where Dering had sought him, and just at the close the 
 painter had struck Platoff across the face with the gloves he 
 was carrying in his hand, leaving a mark, inflicted by a heavy 
 metal button, near the right eye. Platoff had been enraged, 
 beside himself with fury, but — even at that moment — the 
 remembrance of the painter's skill with sword and pistol had 
 come to him. There was murder in the dark eyes of the 
 man who had flung his gloves insultingly across his face, and 
 the Prince hesitated; long enough to call up a smile to 
 Bering's face. 
 
 The single word coward" rang through the scented air 
 of the luxurious room: Platoff hesitated — then laughed. 
 Russian Prince does not meet a man of your class, Mr Dering," 
 he had said mockingly. " You are interested in Mademoiselle 
 Cantalli ? Well — I will be generous. I present her to you ! " 
 
 In speaking he had struck a gong and, on the entrance of 
 a servant, had bowed slightly and taken up a book to indicate 
 that the interview was ended. 
 
 He had often since then told himself that the moment had 
 been merely ridiculous. That he would have been justified if 
 he had ordered the intruder to be seized and beaten by some 
 of his servants. There had been no witnesses. No one in 
 his world would take the painter's word against his, supposing 
 Dering elected to talk. The whole thing was unworthy of 
 serious thought ; nevertheless the memory was bitter and it 
 gave him keen pleasure to belittle the man who had humiliated 
 him. He was a diplomat by education and predilection ; it 
 amused him to realize that he was just then walking in the 
 midst of danger. He knew Muriel de Brissac loved him 
 devotedly. That his influence over her was almost unlimited ; 
 but he scented danger. She was vain and worldly : her love 
 of money was whipped by her lack of it from legitimate 
 sources. She had few scruples, and in her own particular set 
 curious things were done, and accepted, daily. He was very 
 sure of her from the point of view of a woman of the world 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 but there was another side. She loved him ! And Platoff 
 knew well that when love comes, for the first time, to a 
 woman who has passed her early youth it generally comes to 
 stay. He would have to walk warily and for the moment no 
 one must dream that his attraction to the de Brissac menage 
 was other than his well-known friendship for the Comtesse. 
 As Violet Hilliard crossed the room in search of a magazine 
 he prepared to take leave. 
 
 A ce soir 1^^ he said softly as he bent over the hand of 
 the Comtesse. " Mademoiselle, you will not permit yourself 
 to forget that you have promised me two valses this evening ? 
 And will you try to keep one free for a great friend of mine 
 whom I hope to present — with your permission, and 
 Madame's? Ivan Apraxine is a handsome fellow. All the 
 ladies find him adorable ! " 
 
 The Comtesse was arranging some rose branches in a 
 crystal vase and she did not see PlatofTs eyes as he directed 
 them towards the tall figure in dark blue : they expressed such 
 open, almost violent, admiration that Violet's colour rose, ever 
 so faintly. She half lowered her dark lashes and smiled. A 
 moment longer the devouring glance held her in willing 
 bondage, and then he bowed low and passed out. 
 
 For several minutes there was silence. Muriel de Brissac 
 was busy with the roses and Violet was in dreamland. 
 
 It was not the first time the Russian had told her, silently, 
 that he found her desirable above all things. At first his 
 fervent, stealthy glances had frightened her, because of her 
 cousin. She was a jeune fille but — of the world ; she guessed 
 the true state of affairs pretty accurately and she was not 
 shocked. Of recent years she had met so many pretty women 
 who had convenient " friends " that she had come to regard it 
 as a matter of ordinary usage. Her mother had died when 
 she was quite a little girl, and up to the age of seventeen she 
 had lived with Miss Hilliard, her father's only sister. She 
 had never loved her aunt very much but she had been, in a 
 way, happy with her; she had even taken an intermittent 
 
io8 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 interest in that lady's good works. Indeed at one period she 
 had been imbued with the idea that Nature had shaped her 
 for "a helper " ! She had taken delight in visiting people who 
 lived in shabby little houses where a smell of cooking fought 
 hourly with a sickly smell of cheap lamp oil and burning 
 grease. Violet had seemed like an angel to the inhabitants of 
 these poor little houses and single rooms, and it had been 
 pleasant to shed sunshine in dark places. They had loved 
 her, one and all — these dwellers in the shadows and, after a 
 manner, she had been fond of them. But then there were so 
 many other things which attracted her attention and in the 
 end, though she did try to overcome the feeling, the inter- 
 mingled smell of burning grease and cheap oil became unbear- 
 able. Then she tried to do needlework for the benefit of her 
 aunt's **poor dears." Little squares of muslin which she 
 called handkerchiefs and which the recipients treasured up in 
 memory of ''Miss Vilet"; and attenuated jackets for small 
 children who all seemed to possess abnormally chubby arms, 
 and who seemed to swell visibly when the garments came to 
 be tried on. Her aunt, who really loved her, never lost an 
 opportunity of pointing out that her character lacked continuity, 
 and very often since those old days Violet found herself 
 coming to the same conclusion. She was forced to admit that 
 her only relationship with the law of continuity lay in her 
 ardent desire to pass slowly and lingeringly through all the 
 phases of luxurious life. 
 
 When she was seventeen her father became suddenly alive 
 to her possibilities, promptly took her from her aunt's care and 
 introduced her to the delights of *'life abroad." Miss Hilliard 
 continued to give her niece a certain sum, paid quarterly, for 
 pin-money, but she was gravely offended. So much so that 
 she refused to take the girl back when her brother Weston 
 found that "possibilities " ran into money. 
 
 Then had come the Comtesse de Brissac's suggestion that 
 Violet should pay her a visit of undefined length. 
 
 The girl had received the idea with unconcealed delight. 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 109 
 
 At last she was to revel in luxury and to find herself constantly 
 surrounded by the beautiful things she loved. She had been 
 enchanted and her father had proved unexpectedly generous. 
 She had been in a position to pay off several pressing debts — 
 partly, and to give fresh orders. Certainly some of the Paris 
 people had been none too polite, but she had learned from her 
 father that politeness is a quality unknown to tradespeople, 
 either in giving or receiving. She had passed three glorious 
 weeks at Trouville, a feverish month in Paris, during which 
 her Cousin Muriel had spent her days shopping and her 
 evenings at the theatres, with Prince Platoff in attendance; 
 and now they were at Rome. And Violet could not hide 
 from herself the fact that she was not happy. 
 
 Just at first life with her cousin had seemed very rosy and 
 enchanting. Constant change of scene and of surroundings 
 had occupied her thoughts, to the exclusion of everything else, 
 but now — here in Rome, at the opening of the winter season, 
 she was again realizing the difficulties and little humiliations 
 of a society beauty who has to keep up appearances on com- 
 paratively slender means. Sometimes, when she happened 
 to be in a specially good humour, her cousin made her 
 handsome presents, but these nearly always took the form 
 of slightly worn gowns or hats. It was true that on their 
 arrival in Rome, Muriel had given her, as a birthday present, 
 a little gold purse containing ;^3oo, but this sum, which had 
 seemed splendid on receipt, had slipped away — the greater 
 part of it across a bridge table at the rooms of a fabulously 
 wealthy Russian woman who was a mutual friend of Platoff 
 and of the Comtesse. 
 
 They had insisted that Violet must play and her partner 
 had been Platoff. When supper was announced and debts 
 paid the horrible truth presented itself. Platoff had scorned 
 the idea that his partner should dream of sharing the losses, 
 but the girl's early training made her stand firm. She was 
 frightened and furious at her own stupidity, but she did not 
 hesitate. The little gold purse was emptied, with a careless 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 laugh, and never once did she betray her fears. Platoff, 
 whose eyes rarely left her face, was amazed. He knew — no 
 one better than he — the circumstances that surrounded the 
 girl's life, and also he knew, from experience, that this was 
 not the spirit in which Weston Hilliard regarded debts of 
 honour ! 
 
 From the first he had admired the girl, but it was on that 
 night that he made up his mind to marry her. 
 
 Violet was thinking of the Russian Prince's fervent gaze 
 as she turned the pages of a magazine without realizing what 
 she was doing. She was thoroughly accustomed to spoken 
 and unspoken admiration, for the men in her father's set had 
 little reverence for the modern jeune fille and rarely thought 
 it necessary to veil their ardent glances in her presence ; but 
 there was subtle attraction in the message given by Platoffs 
 eyes. He was so rich, so powerful, so much sought after. 
 She cast a little side look at her cousin, but Muriel was still 
 absorbed in the flowers. Violet drew herself up to her slender 
 height and passed her little white hand over her forehead. 
 It was intoxicating — this idea which was nebulous yet 
 dazzling. He admired her — exceedingly! And his ad- 
 miration could only have one meaning — if only it were strong 
 enough ? 
 
 She smiled. Once again the faint rose flush stole into her 
 face and then suddenly she grew grave. She was thinking of 
 other eyes — dark and admiring, but so different. Eyes that 
 seemed to penetrate the veil of her thoughts and to read them : 
 eyes that seemed to hypnotize her little ambitions and to 
 awaken, to take their place, childish aspirations which had 
 long ago been thrust aside as impossible." She knew that 
 it was the habit of portrait painters to study, very closely, 
 their sitters, but it seemed to her, at least it seemed so at that 
 moment, that when Miles Dering looked at her he was not 
 thinking altogether of the portrait which had been ordered by 
 her aunt. Twice she had been to the studio for sittings. 
 Twice she had met the painter in society. Once he had 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 spoken to her in the Piazza di Spagna, by the world-famous 
 Spanish Steps. It was late in the afternoon and she had 
 chanced to be alone. The beautiful shallow steps were bathed 
 in golden light, for the sun was setting behind the dome of 
 St Peter's. The towers of S. Trinita del Monte were enveloped 
 in a radiance of red-gold haze and, all around, the bells were 
 insistently calling the faithful to Vespers. A flower-girl, 
 carrying a basket of lilies and roses, had thrown together a 
 bouquet for her, at Bering's request. 
 
 They had lingered, perhaps half an hour. And they had 
 talked. And then when the purple shadows deepened behind 
 the great dome on the Vatican Hill, the painter had driven her 
 back to the hotel, leaving the carriage, at her suggestion, 
 before the entrance was reached. It had been a delightful 
 encounter and she found herself wishing it could be repeated. 
 He was a charming companion — this man with the questioning 
 eyes and caressing voice. She was half afraid of him but — he 
 was attractive. 
 
 She started violently at the sound of her cousin's voice. 
 
 " Violet ! Come here — I want to talk to you.'' 
 
 The girl threw herself carelessly into a chair, took off her 
 fur toque, ruffled up the gleaming masses of her pale gold 
 hair and then leaned back against the cushions. 
 
 " You want me ? " 
 
 The Comtesse looked at her critically : she was appraising 
 her as keenly as it was her habit to appraise works of art 
 which seemed likely to come into her possession. The girl 
 was facing the light and the curtains had been drawn back 
 from the window opposite her. Her skin was flawless and 
 warm as rose-tinted ivory. Muriel de Brissac sighed im- 
 patiently. 
 
 " You know what is in this letter ? " 
 
 Violet's eyes settled on the square envelope lying by her 
 cousin's hand. She shook her head. 
 " No." 
 
 It's a demand, and a very impertinent one, from Cerise ! 
 
112 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 These people won't wait for ever — it's no use thinking they 
 will. You've had four gowns from her and a theatre coat 
 and — no end of other things. What are you going to do 
 about it ? " 
 
 A faint colour crept into the girl's cheeks. 
 
 **Do? Nothing— I can't." 
 
 " But you must ! She's a regular old beast and she 
 doesn't care what she says. And then she hears everything. 
 In this very letter she speaks of your mania for bridge and 
 says that if you can afford to lose looo francs in one evening 
 you can afford to pay your debts." 
 
 "But what unheard of impertinence? And who could 
 have told her ? " 
 
 " Oh — as to that, one never knows. Just as likely as not 
 she is financed by Madame de Vannes, or by someone in that 
 set. Everyone seems to be mixed up in trade now a days and 
 one is never safe. It's always ten chances to one that your 
 most intimate friend is a tout for some milliner or dress- 
 maker and, in the * interests ' of the firm always on the 
 watch." 
 
 "But seriously, Muriel, what can I do?" 
 
 " That's just what I want to know. You are such a fool, 
 Violet ! It was none too easy for me to give you that ^loo 
 when we came here and you must go and lose the greater 
 part of it, and to that horrible de Vannes woman who is 
 rolling in money ? And then to actually hand over the 
 money, as you did, when Serge PlatofT was going to settle up 
 — as a matter of course. It was idiotic but you are always 
 doing these things." 
 
 "You think I should have allowed Prince Platoff to pay 
 my debts ? " 
 
 The Comtesse moved uneasily in her chair and her face 
 hardened. She looked at the girl sharply. 
 
 " Of course not — not really, but it would have been quite 
 natural for him to settle up, especially as you are a jeune fille^ 
 and then it could have been arranged afterwards." 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 113 
 
 " But if I had not paid then I never could have paid at 
 all. And I don't know what you mean by * arranged.' " 
 
 There was silence for several minutes. The Comtesse was 
 visibly annoyed. At last she said : 
 
 " Look here, Violet, you'll have to get out of that 
 detestable habit of insisting on dotting every / and crossing 
 every /. In ordinary life — in the life of our world, we don't 
 want to copy the methods of the respectable young man who 
 keeps accounts in an office ! We write, and we live, swiftly 
 and flowingly, and if every t is not crossed nor every / pipped — 
 so much the better : people have a chance of reading what it 
 suits them to read. This word, or this action, may mean just 
 this or just that — or something quite different. People aren't 
 half so mean as they're made out to be. They don't ask 
 inconvenient questions, or discover inconvenient meanings, 
 unless forced to it. Everyone knows that it's necessary to 
 play the game, for if the shoe pinches you to-day it will prob- 
 ably pinch your next-door neighbour to-morrow." 
 
 All of which means that you think I should have allowed 
 Prince Platoff to pay my debts ? " 
 
 " All of which means that you are a sentimental little 
 idiot and that / can't spare a sou to keep this woman 
 Cerise from making a scandal. I haven't been so hard up 
 for years." 
 
 **But you ordered four new dresses yesterday afternoon 
 and you owe Madame Berthe ten times more than I 
 owe Cerise." 
 
 Unfortunately, the laws of the country demand that we 
 should be clothed ! " 
 
 "But four new dresses? And two of them will cost at 
 least 3000 francs each ? " 
 
 More — if I decide to have the gold Venetian, but it 
 doesn't matter ; the things will be paid for — sooner or later. 
 What matters just now is this Cerise woman?" 
 
 Perhaps papa — ? " 
 
 How hkely ! " 
 8 
 
114 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 Well, what do you suggest ? 
 *'That you marry !" 
 ''Whom?'' 
 
 The Comtesse shrugged her shoulders. 
 "Someone with plenty of money. Comte Ivan Apraxine, 
 for example — if he should be willing.'' 
 "That brute?" 
 
 Madame de Brissac folded her arms and leaned back in 
 her chair. 
 
 " I often think you must be a changeling," she said 
 sententiously. " I can't understand your being your father's 
 daughter — or your mother's either, for that matter. You are 
 neither ' fish nor flesh nor good red herring ' ! You love the 
 world and want to live in it and yet you can't get rid of these 
 ridiculous ideas about love and morality and high-mindedness 
 and all the rest. You want to rival the Borizoff woman on 
 the income of a person like — that man Dering, for example ! " 
 
 " What has Mr Dering to do with the matter? " 
 
 "Very little — I hope? But I've an idea that you are 
 prepared to indulge in a little affaire de cmir with him, and I 
 assure you it won't do. He's a nobody and a poor nobody 
 into the bargain. Your aunt has insisted on this portrait 
 being done, and she was polite enough to make it plain that 
 she wished you to be chaperoned, at the studio, by Miss 
 Dering instead of by me. I suppose she's in hopes these 
 people will convert you and make you see the error of your 
 ways — and of mine." 
 
 " Muriel — please be serious. The Derings have nothing 
 to do with this matter. What I want to know is — what can 
 be done about Cerise? It's simply frightful to live in daily 
 terror of seeing her or hearing from her." 
 
 " Marry a rich man ! " 
 
 Violet sat up straight and looked at her cousin. 
 "You have something in your mind? " 
 " I have the hope that Ivan Apraxine may find you as 
 agreeable as he anticipates ! I heard him say, yesterday 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 115 
 
 afternoon at the Palazzo Farnese, that you were the prettiest 
 girl in Rome.'' 
 
 Violet flushed with pleasure ; she loved to be admired. 
 
 **But he's horrid — you know how frightfully badly he 
 treated that girl in Paris? Everyone says he was a perfect 
 brute to her, and that it was his fault she committed 
 suicide? " 
 
 The Comtesse compressed her red lips and her handsome 
 eyes grew hard. 
 
 " My dear Violet, how right people are when they speak 
 of you as 'an extraordinary jeune fille,^ You are extra- 
 ordinary and if you weren't so pretty people would soon say 
 that you were very bad form. What on earth is it to you — 
 such an affair as that? Apraxine chose to pick up a pretty 
 girl from the Paris music-hall stage and to shower money on 
 her ; she^ sentimental little idiot, chose to fancy herself really in 
 love with him. And then, just because of some practical joke 
 at a supper party, the little fool throws herself into the Seine 
 and is next seen at the Morgue." 
 
 "*A practical joke'? You call what he did a practical 
 joke?" 
 
 "I don't know what he did — and certainly you cannot 
 possibly know either. It is not a subject of conversation for 
 us. The jeune fille of modern life is permitted a great deal 
 of liberty, but there are still some subjects on which she 
 cannot speak." 
 
 " But you spoke of — at least you suggested — the idea of 
 marriage ? " 
 
 "With Apraxine? If only the gods would put it into 
 his head to fall in love with you ! Why, my dear girl — do 
 you know that he is enormously wealthy, and a cuirassier of 
 the Imperial Guards, and the head of his family? It would 
 never have entered my mind to hope that he might think of 
 marrying you, but that Serge Platoff, who is his intimate 
 friend, spoke very meaningly this afternoon. Even now it 
 may be only a glorious dream, but — there are possibiUties, 
 
ii6 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 and to-night you must look your best. You can wear my 
 diamond comb — the Grecian one, if you like, and that funny 
 little old brooch of your mother's will do very well for the 
 front of your corsage, the diamonds are good though the 
 design is so old fashioned. And for heaven's sake don't talk 
 seriously about things or pretend to know anything about 
 anyone, in our set — I mean the little things everyone knows 
 and no one mentions. You are at your best as the frightened 
 dove, with your eyes wide open and your cheeks flushed. Be 
 natural — that's all I ask you. Be natural and let the man 
 see that you find him agreeable and delightful, only, don't 
 gush ! Everything depends on the first meeting ; he has 
 already seen you and he admires you — really ; all you've got 
 to do is to let the hook get well fixed in his mouth and then 
 draw him in — very quietly. Remember that if only you 
 could secure him everything would be right : Cerise would 
 wait, gladly, a hundred years for her money, and besides 
 waiting she'd go on her knees and beg of you to order every- 
 thing she had in her showrooms. And so would all the rest. 
 Once get engaged to a really rich man and — everything will 
 go right ! " 
 
 Violet closed her eyes for a moment and leaned heavily 
 against the cushions of her chair. She was thinking and — 
 she was feeling : feeling frightened and ashamed, and — not a 
 little elated. She was a strange girl, in some ways "extra- 
 ordinary," as her cousin had said. Very often it seemed to 
 her true that she was neither '^fish, nor flesh, nor good red 
 herring." She had not the courage to be " good " — altogether, 
 and she had not the courage to be " bad." And by " bad " 
 she meant wholly worldly. By nature impulsive and im- 
 pressionable the teachings of her aunt had left marks which 
 had never been entirely effaced by the teachings of her father, 
 and then of her cousin. And further back — there were the 
 teachings, when she was a wee girl, of her gentle little 
 mother. When she was with Miss Hilliard her interest in 
 the **poor dears" was quite genuine, and her affection for 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 117 
 
 them, if uncertain, genuine too. But then, unhappily, her 
 keen delight in the admiration and excitement of the world 
 was equally genuine and, at times, all powerful. And thus 
 she was drawn this way and that, w^ith a strong desire to be 
 what she herself called "good and true," and a fatal capa- 
 bility for drifting with the golden stream, which flows from 
 the heart of the world to the gardens of strange delights 
 — over there, in the land of mad dreams ! 
 
 She had what is called a temperament. There w^as within 
 her the power to feel keenly about things which bore no 
 relationship, one to the other. She w^as a slave of the touch, 
 for soft satins and filmy laces had voices that called her 
 insistently; she was the slave of the spirit of perfumes — 
 subtle and enervating. She w^as sensuous but not sensual, 
 full of contradictions and of conflicting desires. Very often — 
 almost every day — she found herself w^ishing that she could 
 make up her mind finally to be "good'' or "bad.'' The two 
 bald words represented a great deal to her. She rose 
 wearily from her chair and took up her fur cap. 
 
 "I must go and lie down," she said. "I am tired. I 
 shall look a wreck to-night unless I get some sleep." 
 
 Her cousin looked at her sharply. 
 
 "Don't you always sleep well? It would be fatal for 
 you to get worn-looking. Why don't you take something 
 to soothe your nerves — if you have any ? Have an absinthe 
 now and then lie down. The last one you took did you no 
 end of good — didn't it ? " 
 
 Violet shuddered. 
 
 "Oh, no — no^ not that. It frightens me. When I took 
 it the other day it made me feel — I can't explain, but not a 
 bit like myself." 
 
 " I remember quite well how you felt, for you told me 
 all about it. You said you felt as if you were w^alking in 
 some exquisite garden full of flowers, and that you were 
 wearing the most lovely gown you had ever dreamt of! I 
 remember quite well, because you said that you knew you 
 
ii8 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 were much more lovely and more admired than the Borizoff 
 woman ! 
 
 Again the girl shuddered. 
 
 *'Yes, I remember. It was lovely and it was frightful, 
 because it wasn't natural. I knew all the time it wasn't natural, 
 and still I wanted to go on — and on — for ever." 
 
 "And why not? When I told Serge Platoff of your 
 experience he said that you must be one of the elect. That 
 the green fairy most certainly had exquisite things waiting 
 for you ! " 
 
 "You told Prince Platoff?" 
 
 "Yes — why not? Everyone drinks absinthe, but it does 
 not affect everyone as it affected you. Another time you will 
 probably have different sensations but always delicious ones 
 — at least, so Platoff says." 
 
 "How could he know?" She spoke eagerly, and in her 
 lovely eyes there was a flame of excitement. Then her out- 
 stretched hand dropped to her side. "It doesn't matter; 
 I don't mean to take it again. I'm afraid of it." 
 
 The Comtesse smiled slightly and took up a book as 
 the door opened and closed. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THERE are few scenes better calculated to awaken and 
 quicken memory than that which may be witnessed 
 from the terrace of San Pietro in Montorio at the hour of 
 sunset. 
 
 The terrace stands very high ; the ascent to it is long 
 and steep, but from that sacred spot, where it is said St Peter 
 was crucified, the view is absolutely unique. 
 
 Rome in all its glory, past and present. 
 
 As one leans against the parapet of the famous terrace 
 one sees far away, stretching to the horizon, the vast Cam- 
 pagna. Outside the city, beyond the Botanical Gardens, the 
 great dome of St Peter's rears itself aloft in proud defiance 
 of time and change. Underneath, at the foot of the Jani- 
 culum Hill, lies the Trastevere district, now inhabited almost 
 exclusively by true-born Romans of the working classes, 
 many of them direct descendants of the Romans of ancient 
 days. Handsome men and women of stalwart frames and 
 sullen eyes ; workers who daily grow more and more imbued 
 with the modern spirit of democracy. In the flaming brilli- 
 ancy of a golden sun preparing to sink to rest behind the 
 great dome which owes something to Bramante and very 
 much to Michelangelo, the dark fringe of cypresses on the 
 ruined Palatine stands out boldly against a cobalt sky, and 
 the marbles on the terrace of the Pincio gleam strangely white. 
 Almost at the moment when Underwood and Mrs Waring 
 reached the terrace of San Pietro in Montorio the sun began 
 to sink very slowly and with sublime dignity. The world- 
 famous dome seemed to change colour: flaming red, pale 
 gold, as the gold of Eastern cupolas, and then dazzling 
 incandescent silver. A moment Inter the giant Basilica was 
 
 119 
 
120 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 bathed in deep, mysterious blue. A sombre purple light 
 illuminated the Janiculum Hill, where the motionless cypresses 
 looked black and forbidding. The whole sky had grown 
 purple and gold and crimson, and the dying rays of the setting 
 giant sprang up and touched into vivid life the crystal 
 windows under the cupola. It was a scene of magic splendour, 
 and the American gazed at it long and in complete silence. 
 Then he turned to his companion. 
 
 **How strange it seems — and one is reminded of it at 
 such a moment as this — that, though times and manners have 
 changed, the passions of men have remained exactly the same 
 as they were ages ago, when Nero's Golden House extended 
 from the Palatine to the Esquiline : when the Colosseum 
 was the scene of wholesale slaughter. In those days men ate 
 and slept, and loved and hated, just as men do now. They 
 wore different clothes, it is true, but in what else, fundament- 
 ally, were they different ? The race in those days was for the 
 strongest, and woe to them who fell by the way. And in these 
 days where is the real difference ? We talk a great deal, and 
 it would not now be considered good form to peer through a 
 polished emerald at the slaughter of helpless women and 
 children, but are we really very different — many of us?" 
 
 Clio looked pensive. 
 
 " I wonder ? " she said thoughtfully. Then, with a sudden 
 air of determination, " Yes, Tm sure we're ever so much better 
 and nicer. Lots of people nowadays give up their time and 
 money to helping the poor, and all that. No one, in any 
 country, would stand Nero now, no matter how rich and 
 powerful he might be." 
 
 No. His methods of expressing himself would not now 
 be considered *good form,' but I was not talking about 
 methods or manners ; I was merely trying to think if Nature 
 itself, as understood by us, has changed. Nero was an 
 absolute autocrat ; he considered himself, and his people 
 pretended to consider him, on a level with the gods. Now, 
 picture to yourself some of our modern leaders in a like 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 121 
 
 position. They might not organize gladiatorial combats, for 
 gladiators are no longer in fashion, and our strong men of 
 to-day have a keen eye on the gate money, but it is possible to 
 conceive greater suffering — certainly much more prolonged — 
 than death in the arena. I have gained considerable food for 
 thought since I came to Rome this time, and that food has 
 come to me in generous supplies from the Trastevere region 
 yonder. There you find poverty of an appalling kind, and 
 dirt and sickness unbelievable. There you find men and 
 women of pure Roman blood who live in the midst of 
 indescribable squalor and filth. Men who look at you with 
 menacing eyes, and whose hands seem to twitch with longing 
 to use a knife. In all countries — in my own less, perhaps, 
 than in others — the spirit of anarchy is rapidly gaining strength, 
 and one day there will be a terrible reckoning; it is inevit- 
 able." 
 
 Clio looked at him in mild amazement. 
 
 " Have you been talking to Miles Dering ? " she asked 
 sententiously. Underwood laughed as he bent forward and 
 leaned his arms on the parapet. 
 
 "Well, yes, I believe I have, and to some purpose. He is 
 a strange chap, but his ideas are sound enough. He has 
 realized that the only way any real good can be done is by 
 getting, if you can, everyone to sweep out his own little 
 corner ! 
 
 " I often wonder whether he is a saint or a fool ? 
 
 *'0h, neither, of that I am sure. Certainly, he is no 
 saint, though his ideas on things in general are unusual. And 
 as to his being a *fooV I do not think I need go into that 
 matter. You know him rather well." 
 
 Yes ? I often wonder if anyone in the world really knows 
 him. Of course, he's not a fool in the ordinary sense, but 
 then the role of reformer is such a thankless one and he is so 
 clever. He might do wonders." 
 
 Underwood squared his shoulders, and leaned back so 
 that he might face his companion. 
 
122 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 " Do you know, I think you are quite mistaken in looking 
 on Bering as a reformer. So far as I can see he rarely, if 
 ever, puts forward his ideas; he simply occupies himself 
 with sweeping out his own little corner ! I really think, if you 
 consider the matter closely, that he is particularly reticent ; he 
 hardly ever attempts to give advice of any kind. He just 
 goes on his own way. Certainly he is not easily influenced, 
 but then he does not try to influence people actively. If you 
 come to think of it you will see that he impresses himself on 
 one without any personal effort. Simply by the force of 
 character and, I suppose, example/' 
 
 Clio nodded. 
 
 " I quite agree with you that he is not easily influenced. 
 He's pig headed and obstinate as a mule. And it seems 
 useless to try to make things hum round him : he just 
 laughs and goes on his own way. I am simply disgusted 
 about Gabrielle Borizoff — I so much wanted her to like him, 
 and you saw how things went. I had fully intended getting 
 her to have him paint her portrait, but now of course it's out 
 of the question. For some reason she seemed to take a 
 sudden dislike to him : she was really very nearly rude that 
 night at supper." 
 
 "Yes.'' Underwood paused a moment and allowed his 
 eyes to wander over the darkening scene, towards the great 
 dome behind which the sun had set. am afraid that 
 portrait will not be realized, but 1 have heard a whisper, 
 indeed it is no longer a secret, that Cardinal Santanini has 
 arranged for Bering to paint a portrait of the Holy Father. 
 Boyenbert has been working Heaven and Earth to bring 
 this about and now all the arrangements are complete. The 
 doctor himself told me about it last night and he seemed 
 ready to dance the can-can, he was so pleased." 
 
 "The Holy Father?" Clio's face was a study. There 
 was written on it surprise and dismay and something of 
 apprehension. "The Pope? But what on earth will he 
 make of it — with his extraordinary ideas ? You heard what 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 Dr Doyenbert said the other day about his methods? Is 
 he going to wait and watch until he catches the Holy Father 
 unawares and then snap him ? " 
 
 Underwood laughed. 
 Something like that, I suppose. It will not be an 
 ordinary portrait — of that we may be sure. Doyenbert 
 believes it will at once place Bering in the niche which the 
 guardians of Art have prepared for him. It will be very 
 interesting to await results. The portrait cannot fail to 
 attract attention." 
 
 **You may be sure of it! Far too much attention. The 
 Pope — of all people in the world. Everybody in Rome will 
 talk about it and pick it to pieces, and even as it is the artists 
 here are banded together to deride Miles Bering and all his 
 works. Oh — I am sorry. I had made everything smooth for 
 a portrait of our Ambassador. He admires the Boyenbert 
 portrait very much — he saw it in Paris — and Captain Tuke 
 told me he intended arranging to have a picture of himself 
 done. Now that portrait would have done Miles Bering 
 no end of good, for Sir Francis isn't a man to stand any 
 nonsense and he would have insisted on being represented 
 as he is in real life — to the average eye.'' 
 
 There was keen disappointment in her tone and the man 
 looked distinctly amused. 
 
 " What an enthusiastic little tout you are ! So much 
 fine energy thrown away. And so you and Captain Tuke 
 have taken Bering's future in hand? I wonder what you, 
 between you, will make of it, and I wonder, very much 
 more, what you are going to do with that attractive 
 young man ? " 
 
 *'Who? Miles Bering?" 
 
 " No ! Captain Fenton Tuke." 
 
 Clio threw back her head and rearranged her veil — 
 cobweb tulle, with a black velvet beauty-spot just at the 
 corner of her mouth and another under her left eye — with 
 an air of unconcern. She was wearing a smart tailored suit 
 
124 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 of dark serge and her hat was black and set well forward on 
 her silky hair. Underwood looked at her admiringly. 
 
 **Yes — I wonder?" he repeated contemplatively. '*Just 
 at the moment you have a fancy for mothering him. Nothing 
 would please you better than choosing his neckties and 
 dealing out his cough lozenges. You would grow girlish 
 in the process of teaching him to regard you as a Con- 
 fessor. 
 
 "I congratulate you on your talent for character-read- 
 ing." The tone was scathing but the American was unmoved. 
 
 *'Not much talent required for reading a 12 by 12 sign. 
 You were shaped in what our friend Bering would call * the 
 mother mould,' and you would be an excellent mother for 
 that boy, just so long as the mothering mood lasted, but it 
 wouldn't be worth while. Your satisfaction would be short- 
 lived and it would be the worst thing that could happen to 
 
 Mr Underwood ! " 
 
 Clio was angry at last and her eyes flashed ominously. 
 Underwood looked at her in surprise. 
 
 " I thought you had too much conceit for that. Of course 
 I never would have said such a thing to an ordinary woman, 
 but somehow you seemed hors concours. Your belief in your 
 own fascinations has always seemed to me impregnable as 
 the great Wall of China." 
 
 For a moment there was silence. Then the woman 
 flashed out: 
 
 **Your candour is truly exquisite if your manners leave 
 something to be desired. I feel crushed and exalted — one 
 on top of the other. My conceit is monumental. The worst 
 thing that could happen a man would be to marry me. 
 Nature has cut me out for a mother ! " 
 
 Monumental' is the word, but I did not say *a man.' 
 I said that particular boy. And as to the mother mould — 
 well, what is wrong with that ? You are not one of those 
 women who affect to despise it ? " 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 125 
 
 **No, I suppose not. But you put it so absurdly. And 
 then why should I seem like Captain Tuke's mother ? He's 
 younger than I am of course, but not so much.'^ 
 
 " About two years, I surmise, if we want to be accurate, 
 but that has nothing to do with it. It would not be good for 
 you to marry anyone you had to take care of : you want to be 
 taken care of yourself." 
 do?" 
 
 "Yes. I do not say you ought to marry a man who would 
 boss you for you are very well qualified to take your own way, 
 but it would not do you any harm to have a master somewhere 
 in the background. You would appreciate him, never fear, 
 and by Heaven if he was the right sort he would appreciate 
 you." 
 
 Clio flushed suddenly and turned away. 
 
 " I've no intention of marrying — again," she said defiantly. 
 The man looked at her steadily. 
 
 *' I wonder why ? " he said. Is it because you were very 
 happy with your husband, or — very unhappy ? " 
 
 It was the first time they had spoken of Clio's husband 
 and the idea suddenly came to her that she was at a parting 
 of the ways. She glanced down the spacious terrace, now 
 almost deserted, and then her eyes wandered to the fine face 
 of the man. Something in his look made her turn aside, and 
 the flush on her cheeks grew deeper. 
 
 " We got on fairly well," she said hurriedly. " I don't 
 suppose that out of books people are ever very happy or very 
 unhappy. I thought I was in love with him, just at first, but 
 — things happened. It was rather a bother altogether." 
 
 **What ^things'?" 
 
 There was something compelling in the tone of the deep 
 voice, and Clio looked down. 
 
 **He drank — rather, and of course it wasn't very nice. 
 And then — " she was speaking now in answer to an expression 
 of profound pity in the man's eyes — " I myself wasn't at all 
 nice. I flirted — awfully. Yes, I did " — as Underwood 
 
126 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 smiled and shook his head in pretended horror — " far more 
 than you can imagine. I know you think I am rather a nice 
 sort of woman, but — if you knew. There was a man — and I 
 liked him. I was going to run away with him — really. I had 
 quite made up my mind, and then — something happened and 
 I couldn't/' 
 
 What was that * something ' ? " 
 
 Their eyes met, and those of the man were very eloquent. 
 Clio shivered slightly and bent over the stone parapet. 
 
 ^' It's a horrible thing, and I oughtn't to say it, but I do 
 want you to understand me and not to think I am better than 
 I really am. He — the other man was Charlie's great friend, 
 and was often at the house and it was so mean, only it didn't 
 seem mean then. And one night, the night we had settled 
 everything about going away, I saw them together in the 
 dining-room, there were folding doors, and he — the other man 
 — was pouring out whisky and soda for Charlie and I satiJ. 
 It was nearly all whisky, and I knew he was doing it on 
 purpose so that Charlie might fall asleep, and that ke might 
 be alone with me. And then I hated him. Poor old Charlie 
 had been such a bore and such a drag but he was always 
 straight in his ideas. He used to say, about everything, * If 
 you can't play the game, chuck it,' and it wasn't playing the 
 game — it was low and mean and unfair. I never saw h'm 
 again after that night, and really I did what I could for 
 Charlie but it wasn't any good. It was hopeless." 
 You poor, sweet, little woman." 
 
 Underwood's voice was dangerously caressing and his 
 eyes seemed to dominate her soul and to draw it towards him. 
 She looked up into his face and her mouth was quivering. 
 
 " Oh— please don'^.'' 
 No. You may trust me — you have trusted me. I shall 
 not make things difficult for you. But I want to give con- 
 fidence for confidence. I have something to say to you, and 
 I want you to think about it, when you are alone, and to tell 
 me later on your decision. Do not say anything now ; think 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 127 
 
 It well over, from every side, and then decide. The case shall 
 be a hypothetical one. There is a man who loves, very dearly 
 and very truly, a certain woman. And the man is married. 
 His wife does not love him. She has never been a real wife 
 to him. She would lose nothing, financially or otherwise, if 
 he set himself free. He could set himself free and it is possible 
 that the other woman might be induced to give her dear self 
 to him. Their life might be almost ideally happy for he 
 would devote himself to her, and to her alone, and — I think 
 she would like to shelter in his love. It could be arranged 
 but then the man has taken a rather prominent stand against 
 divorce, and — the woman is a Catholic. And still — even 
 admitting these elements of difficulty — it could be arranged if 
 both the man and the woman felt sure that in the case of love 
 the end justifies the means — any means. And in all truth the 
 man feels sure — quite sure. He is more than willing : he is 
 longing and hoping. And so it only remains for the woman 
 to decide — when she has thought it all over. There would be 
 great sacrifices, but on the other hand there would be great 
 love. For he loves her — that man — with all the strength of 
 his nature." 
 
 He bent towards her as he spoke and the last words were 
 whispered almost in her ear, but — and hours after Clio 
 remembered this — he did not touch her. A meeting of 
 trembling hands might have destroyed the balance at that 
 supreme moment, but Underwood "played the game.'' The 
 decision was to be a vital one. From it the rest of her life 
 must, of necessity, take colour and that decision must be 
 arrived at calmly. 
 
 In perfect silence he took her back to the carriage that 
 was waiting for them and he did not speak even when he 
 indicated by a motion of his head that she was to return alone. 
 
 He was physically and mentally a strong man but at that 
 moment he was shaken with emotion, and when the carriage 
 drove away he returned to the terrace and passed a dark 
 hour in self-communion. 
 
128 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 Life was short and after the grave — what ? 
 
 And he felt — knew^ that if he had elected to throw his 
 personal influence into the balance, if he had elected to 
 throw open the sluice gates of his own powerful magnetism, 
 he must have won. The woman he loved could, at a touch, 
 have been made as wax in his hands, to mould and shape at 
 his pleasure. He knew it, and he believed she knew also. 
 
 And he had told his story coldly, as the story of a complete 
 stranger might have been told. 
 
 Something like a curse on his own folly rose to his throat 
 as he bent over the twinkling lights of the mysterious 
 City. 
 
 He had tried to "sweep out his own corner." He had 
 been influenced, he admitted it grudgingly, by the memory 
 of something the painter had said. 
 
 And after all — was Miles Dering a dreamer and a fool ? 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 " TQUT why should one be serious? Serious people are 
 X3 such bores. Everyone admits that ! 
 
 Dering leaned forward and rested his elbow on the 
 wooden arm of the rustic seat on which he and Violet 
 Milliard were sitting. He was laughing heartily. 
 
 "The way in which you generalize is most disconcerting. 
 It makes one feel a fool, if not a prig — this perpetual ' please 
 count me out.'" 
 
 " But of course one always counts you out ! You make 
 a speciality of saying black when other people say white." 
 
 "But indeed I don't do anything of the sort. Only I 
 don't see why I should wag my head, with a simpering ^ quite 
 so, quite so,' like a Dresden-china figure? Why shouldn't I 
 — why shouldn't you, really think ? And why shouldn't we 
 say what we think, if we say anything at all ? " 
 
 Violet examined a glorious white rose she was holding 
 between her bare fingers — her long suede gloves were lying 
 on the seat beside her; then she began to pull off the 
 petals. 
 
 "People who * think' invariably think horrid things," she 
 said. Dering looked at her a moment, then quietly caught 
 her hands and took away the rose. 
 
 You are free to make rash statements, if it amuses you, 
 but not to torture a lovelier thing than yourself." 
 
 "Well — really, Mr Dering! I'm not surprised people 
 say you are — " 
 
 " A bombastic maniac ? I'm not a bit surprised either." 
 The painter's laugh was good to hear and it was infectious. 
 The next moment Violet was laughing with him. 
 
 " Yes, really," she went on, " you are just a wee bit 
 9 129 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 eccentric, and, of course, eccentricity sometimes pays, only — 
 not your sort, I think.'' 
 
 "Socrates himself could not have given forth a more 
 perfect truth. My sort of ' eccentricity ' emphatically doesn't 
 pay." 
 
 "But why do you stick to it? Don't you mind when 
 people say you are — " 
 
 "A bombastic maniac? Not a bit." 
 
 " But don't you want people to like you?" 
 
 " Some people." 
 
 The dark eyes were so eloquent that the girl looked 
 down. 
 
 It was the afternoon of a glorious autumn day and they 
 were sitting in a corner of the gardens of the Villa Medici. 
 Bering knew every avenue and grove of that wonderful 
 garden of dreams, and he had chosen a seat which was apart, 
 without being noticeably secluded. In the quaint Italian 
 garden, down below, carpets of flowers had spread themselves 
 over the brown earth, and a lingering flame of oleander trees 
 showed that summer had not surrendered her throne without 
 a struggle. In the soft sunlight the Casino rose boldly from 
 its hedges of box and laurel and the waters of the fountains 
 gleamed bright against the dark of water-lily leaves. There 
 was silence in the air; the voice of Rome was hushed to a 
 whisper. Through the ilex groves of the Boschetto stole a 
 faintly chill breeze, and the painter drew up the silky furs 
 which had fallen from the girl's shoulders and fastened them 
 round her throat. 
 
 " I believe all you feminine things must have nine lives, 
 like the proverbial cat," he said softly. "It's madness to go 
 about at this time of the year in lace things that would have 
 seemed fragile to Titania." 
 
 She smiled. A tinge of unwonted colour stained her 
 dimpled cheeks and she shrank back under the touch of the 
 strong, brown hands. 
 
 "There it is again," she said quickly, "your unearthly 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 131 
 
 sensibility, or sensibleness — I don't know which is the right 
 word. Fve never met any other person with the same mania 
 for doing and saying the right thing." 
 He glanced up questioningly. 
 
 " I wonder what sort of people youVe met ? People who 
 have counted in your life, I mean ? " 
 
 Violet laughed. Then some spirit, of mischief or some- 
 thing else, prompted her. 
 
 I think the * poor dears ' counted most — really, deep 
 down, you know." 
 
 "The 'poor dears '?'' 
 
 "Yes. My aunt's pensioners. The queer old people she 
 used to visit and to feed and worry. They were quaint old 
 things, but — somehow I liked them. And some of them liked 
 me — quite very much." 
 
 "And you were interested in these 'poor dears'? You 
 used to go among them ? " 
 
 The surprise in his tone stung her and her mood 
 changed. 
 
 " Oh, yes — when I had nothing better to do. They were 
 funny old things : it wasn't bad fun." 
 Bering looked at her seriously, 
 
 "Why won't you let me know something about you — 
 the real you? What are you afraid of? That I should think 
 you too sweet and lovely ? " 
 
 He had laid his hand on the big fur muff and it seemed 
 to the girl that he had drawn nearer to her. She shrank 
 back against the arm of the seat. 
 
 " Oh — please don't think there's anything good about me. 
 I hate all that sort of thing, really. I only liked the * poor 
 dears ' because they amused me, and because — they seemed 
 to like to see me. What you call * the real ' me is a very 
 frivolous thing indeed, I assure you." 
 
 "And you imagine that I condemn frivolity and rejoice 
 in the solemn face and upturned eye?" 
 
 "Well you do — rather. At least, I think so." 
 
132 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 " You think me a sanctimonious sort of person, just one 
 degree removed from a Camp Preacher ? A kind of society — 
 shady society, of course — Revivalist who might be expected 
 to hand out tracts with a cup of tea and to inquire after the 
 welfare of your soul ? " 
 
 "Of course you're talking nonsense now, but still — you 
 aren't a bit like other people, and you have extraordinary 
 views." 
 
 "On what subject?" 
 
 Violet sighed impatiently. 
 
 " Lots of subjects.'* 
 
 "Name one." 
 
 Dering was leaning forward, making vague lines on the 
 pathway with his walking-stick. It was not easy to read the 
 expression on his face. The girl looked at him for a second 
 or two. Then she said defiantly : 
 
 " You have extraordinary views on the subject of money — 
 you can't deny that." 
 
 " ' Extraordinary ' ? Because I don't make a god of it ? 
 Because I don't believe it to be the head, middle and tail 
 of existence? Because I hold the man who hoards it or 
 wastes it to be a scoundrel ? " 
 
 "Yes — ^just that! Not about the god and the head, 
 middle and tail business, of course, but what right have 
 you to call a man a scoundrel because he lays by a lot 
 of money, or because he spends it extravagantly — or what 
 you would call extravagantly?" Dering turned and faced 
 her. 
 
 "Look here," he said imperiously, "you're an intelligent 
 girl; you have the power to understand things — when you 
 care to understand them. Suppose that now, at this moment, 
 some poor little children were here, before us, and that we 
 knew them to be actually starving. And suppose that I had 
 in my hands a big dish of meat and hot potatoes and other 
 nice things : and that I knew the poor small kids were just 
 about strong enough to long for a hearty meal : and that 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 I — remember always that the dish of meat was undoubtedly 
 mine, paid for with my very own money — felt inspired to bury 
 it deep in the earth, or to throw it away, where they couldn't 
 get it. And that then the small animals tumbled down, just 
 here, and died ! What would be your verdict ? That my 
 action was ordinary — or * extraordinary,' or merely brutal ? 
 And do you think the word * scoundrel ' would be entirely 
 inappropriate ? " Violet looked startled. 
 
 But you are exaggerating — absurdly. And things aren't 
 a bit like that." 
 
 **rm not exaggerating ^t all, and things are just like that. 
 Some of us have the power to make money — fairly easily. 
 Some of us can only keep life in the body by working the 
 body to death. All of us need sufficient money to live 
 decently. There's the position, and it's not worth while 
 making a problem of it : the way out is indicated in big 
 letters." 
 
 " But you are a Socialist ? " 
 
 The unconscious horror of the tone made Bering laugh : 
 his face cleared. 
 
 " I don't know the A B C of Socialism and I haven't time 
 to learn it, but I do know that if we live we've got to help 
 live : we've no choice if we place any value on self-respect." 
 
 " ' Help— live ' ? " 
 Yes ! We do it, or leave it undone, in lots of different 
 ways. Very likely you helped on the * poor dears ' more than 
 you ever realized. You're a sunshiny sort of person — and 
 without the sun the world would be a dismal old place." 
 
 " I'm certain I never ^ helped ' anyone in my life, and 
 really — I don't think I much want to — " 
 
 " Because you're afraid of being called * goody-goody ' ! " 
 
 Violet looked at him. 
 
 *'Are you very religious — really?" she asked, and there 
 was no mockery in her tone. 
 
 Bering hesitated, and the invisible wall of reserve made 
 itself felt. 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 "Not at all — in the ordinary sense," he said quietly. 
 "I know what's right and what's wrong — for me; and I'm 
 not ashamed of trying to do the decent thing when I can. 
 In fact, I've never been able to understand why one should 
 be dubbed a * preaching bounder ' for advocating the practice 
 of the elementary rules of civilization. We really were not 
 put on this earth to snatch everything our hands can reach 
 and hold on to it. We aren't — or we oughtn't to be — purse 
 proud children, strutting about and showing off our superior 
 clothes and possessions, and sneering at the 'poor dears' 
 who find it as much as they can do to comply with police 
 regulations in the affair of covering up their bones. There's 
 enough and plenty for everyone but, naturally, the strong 
 ones are able to grab twice as much as the weak ones. 
 Have they the right to hold on to it — that's the question ? " 
 
 "The right?" 
 
 " If your world is to be accepted as arbitrator the question 
 has been answered — long ago." 
 
 " But you don't accept the authority of the world? " 
 "No!" 
 
 Bering was smiling, and in the gathering twilight his dark 
 face looked very attractive. He was in the picture. Rome 
 was a fitting background for the tall, sinuous figure and the 
 fateful eyes, dark and luminous, which seemed to belong 
 to the soil. 
 
 Violet felt her heart throb excitedly: she almost fancied 
 she could hear its hurried beats. From the first Miles 
 Bering had influenced her — curiously: and she knew his 
 influence was getting stronger and more assertive as the days 
 stole by. She did not want him to become an active factor 
 in her life, but she was powerless before the dominion of his 
 eyes — of his vigorous personality. She was more than a 
 little afraid of him, but the fear was born of knowledge, 
 imperfect but already disconcerting, that he was a man — 
 perhaps the one man — who could, if he set his will to it, 
 completely dominate her. And she was determined to resist 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 135 
 
 his attraction. It was necessary for her to marry money, 
 and she had come to see that he would never be a rich man, 
 as she counted riches. She believed, in a vague sort of 
 way, that he was unusually clever, and she guessed that 
 with his magnetic personality and talent he might easily 
 become world-famous. But would he? That was the 
 question. And was it in the power of anyone — even an 
 exceptionally beautiful woman — to really influence him? 
 To make him see that fame and money were worth far, far 
 more than impossible dreams ? Sometimes she fancied that 
 she could work the miracle — if she permitted herself to be 
 in earnest about it. That he admired her she knew : that 
 he already more than admired her she guessed : and she felt 
 tempted. 
 
 But then there was another side. She might influence 
 him : he, most surely, could influence her — if he wished. 
 And she was beginning to realize that he did so wish. 
 
 She rose rather hastily. 
 
 "I must go," she said. '*It wasn't quite the wisest thing 
 in the world — this little outing ! You know Fm supposed to 
 be at your studio — ^giving you a sitting for that wonderful 
 portrait. Muriel de Brissac doesn't bother much about what 
 one does, but she is always talking about les convenances^ 
 
 Bering was standing by her side. He looked down into 
 her eyes and smiled. 
 
 " Fm sure Madame de Brissac is easily shocked, but then 
 — you're in such safe company. I've many faults, but I 
 really am almost needlessly respectable." 
 
 Violet laughed softly. 
 
 "Perhaps? But then all artists get the credit of being 
 Bohemians : one pictures them enjoying an uninterrupted life 
 of wild pleasure ! " Then, without waiting for him to speak, 
 she went on rapidly : " ^ propos the portrait — I have received 
 inspiration. I want you to make it more or less like that 
 wonderful picture of Princess Borizoff by Carlo Lucci? The 
 general idea, I mean, and the pose — more or less." 
 
136 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 Cleopatra mentally reviewing the possibilities of asp- 
 poison, from an after-death, spectacular point of view." 
 She stared. 
 
 "Why won't you be serious? It's a lovely picture: so 
 regal and such splendid colouring." 
 
 " But I am serious ! Who wouldn't be before the sug- 
 gestion you've just made?" 
 
 " What suggestion ? " 
 
 "That I should copy Lucci's portrait of Princess 
 Borizoff." 
 
 "But I never said 'copy.' I only said that the general 
 idea was what I should like." 
 
 " But you aren't a bit like Cleopatra ! Nor are you the 
 least little bit like Princess Borizoff — thank the gods. And 
 why should I make you look ridiculous? If you want 
 to dress up and get a 'picture' made you can go to a 
 fashionable photographer." 
 
 "But what are you going to make me like — I've never 
 seen the picture as yet?" 
 
 " Because there's nothing to see — as yet. And I'm going 
 to make you like — Miss Violet Hilliard, honeymooning in 
 Japan, I think ! I have had a vision of you standing in 
 the sunshine near one of the sacred lakes — all amongst the 
 lotus blossoms." 
 
 " Do you mean in Japanese dress ? " 
 
 Violet's lovely eyes sparkled with excitement and the 
 painter drew nearer. She was tall for a woman, but it seemed 
 to him that her dainty head, with its crown of pale gold, 
 reached only to his heart. 
 
 " Not very likely. All in white — some creamy laces and 
 soft silk crepe stuff and none of those high collars that you 
 affect so much. There's nothing amiss with your throat, 
 either in shape or colour." 
 
 Something in his voice made her feel nervous and she 
 looked down quickly. 
 
 " But I don't see that your idea is a bit more natural than 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 137 
 
 Lucci's. IVe never been in Japan, and I've never seen a 
 lotus flower in my life." 
 
 " No ; but you have a year or two before you ? And then 
 I said * honeymooning/ " 
 
 But it's more than unlikely that I shall * honeymoon ' in 
 Japan ? " 
 
 More than likely, I think. It's no end of a jolly place — 
 if you have anyone to show you round who knows the land 
 and the people." 
 
 Honeymoons are out of fashion and besides — I don't 
 know anyone specially interested in Japan." 
 
 You know me." 
 They were walking slowly through an ilex avenue, dusky 
 and filled with soft haze ; below them lay the western terrace 
 beloved of Galileo, with its border of roses and its background 
 of laurel groves. The sun had faded away behind Monte 
 Mario, and the shadows were lengthening on the moss-grown 
 steps leading down from the Boschetto. 
 
 Violet's foot slipped on a lichen-covered stone and Bering 
 took her hand ; he retained it as they descended the long 
 flight of uneven steps. They seemed absolutely alone in the 
 garden of dreams, and as they walked, side by side, neither 
 spoke. At last the girl said tentatively : 
 
 I wonder if anyone knows you — real/y 
 The pressure of the strong brown fingers was ever so slight 
 but it brought a flood of colour to her cheeks. She twisted 
 her hand a little as though wanting to get it free, and the 
 masterful fingers became steel ; then when the petulant 
 struggle was over they opened softly as though to permit the 
 prisoner to escape — at will. Violet was looking straight in 
 front of her ; she did not avail herself of the opportunity. 
 Bering laughed softly and again his fingers closed gently over 
 their prey. 
 
 I'm not sure that anyone does — really. But someone 
 will — one of these days." 
 Someone ? " 
 
138 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 You— I fancy.'' 
 
 This time the girl made a more determined effort to with- 
 draw her hand and the brown fingers opened without hesitation. 
 They stood a moment on the western terrace and looked 
 down on the domes and towers of Rome. Away in the 
 distance Soracte and the Alban Mountains were fast melting 
 into the horizon, and behind S. Trinita del Monte there was a 
 great white cloud that looked like a snow-capped hill. The 
 haze of purest gold had changed into a mystic mist of rose 
 and purple and the breezes in the ilex groves grew each 
 moment more insistently chill. Unconsciously they walked 
 a little quicker and Violet said rather abruptly : 
 
 "Is it too late for tea? I think I should like 
 some." 
 
 It's never too late for anything one wants. Shall we go 
 to the English tea place, near the Spanish Steps ? " 
 She made a little grimace. 
 
 "I shouldn't have a rag of character left if I went there 
 alone with you. It's a hot-bed of gossip. Everyone goes 
 there — everyone talks there ! " 
 
 "Come back to the studio, then? " 
 
 ^* No — I don't think so. Can't we go to some little place 
 where there won't be any English people ? I don't think I 
 want tea after all. I should like an absinthe." 
 
 Bering looked down at her and laughed. 
 
 *^What a spoiled baby you are — playing at being a femme 
 du monde^ ultra-up-to-date ! If you think you are going to 
 taste that beastly green stuff while you're with me you're very 
 much mistaken. But if you don't care about tea — really, 
 we'll go to a quaint little osteria near here, where you shall be 
 introduced to a * Deringsling.' It's a rather fascinating pick- 
 me-up, and it won't harm you." 
 
 " A * Deringsling ' ? What on earth is that ? " 
 
 "An invention of mine which is having a small success 
 here in Rome. There's a basis of Asti and little additions of 
 pomegranate juice, sliced pear and a few cherries. At the last 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 moment some fizzy stuff is added. It's a pleasurable sort of 
 drink/' 
 
 Late that evening, long after he had said good-night to 
 Violet Hilliard, near the entrance of the Bristol Hotel, Bering 
 strolled on and on through streets and squares. It was his 
 habit to take long walks at sunrise and after sunset, and on this 
 particular evening he was so engrossed in his thoughts that 
 time ceased to exist and he was unconscious of environment. 
 
 He was thinking of the girl with whom he had spent the 
 afternoon, in the gardens of the Villa Medici : he was realizing 
 the absolute certainty that he loved her. 
 
 And to him Love was a tremendous emotion. 
 
 As a very young man, even as a boy, he had dreamed of 
 life with the woman : the delicious feminine thing who was 
 to embody his fond dreams and to whom he would dedicate 
 his life. Beautiful visions had, even in those days, spread 
 themselves out before the magic casements of his dreaming 
 mind. 
 
 He was full of contradictions. 
 
 By nature passionate, almost violent, he yet had all the 
 reserves of his race and with these reserves more than his 
 share of fastidiousness. He was a man of unmistakable 
 masculinity: strong, vigorous and healthy. He was no 
 believer in asceticism and the Moralist of everyday life 
 would probably have pronounced against many of his ideas, 
 but he had his own code and never set it aside. 
 
 From Bering the married woman was safe : he would 
 have considered it the act of a coward to " make love " to 
 her, even if a wilfully blind husband had been on the 
 scene. He would as soon have tortured a favourite dog or 
 cat as have done a wrong to a defenceless girl, but he laid no 
 claim to the crown of the celibate. 
 
 His peculiar training had made it comparatively easy for 
 him to defy the influence of public opinion and he could not, 
 for the life of him, see why a man should be ashamed of a 
 
140 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 kindly action, or thought, but the person who called him a 
 prig would have had to justify the word with the point of 
 a sword and Bering's fame as a fencer had penetrated into 
 several European capitals. 
 
 His character was fine but not at all so unusual as people 
 supposed. Many men held the views that he held— views 
 not infrequently derided by short-sighted women — but not 
 very many men possessed his moral courage. Bering himself 
 would probably have confessed that his immunity from the 
 thraldom of on dit " lay as much in his contempt for those 
 who failed to appreciate big truths as in any other direction. 
 He was in the world but not of it and he found it hard to 
 realize that its dictates really had an overwhelming influence 
 over many, apparently strong, characters. 
 
 He was exceptional because he was quite natural, and, as 
 a rule, people liked him very much or detested him. It is 
 probable that no one had ever described him as " rather a nice 
 young man '' ! 
 
 As he walked on and on he found himself on the banks 
 of the Tiber — not very far from the Via Giulia, and in a 
 deserted spot he stood still and peered out over the great 
 yellow stream, fringed with reeds. 
 
 Behind him was a hidden garden and a faint perfume of 
 oleanders filled the air. Close by, on his right, some cypress 
 and ilex trees trembled before a breath of chill wind and 
 then sank to sleep under the star-lit dome of mysterious 
 blue. The slumber of the ages seemed unbroken. Night 
 was silent. 
 
 He leaned against the broken wall of the old garden and 
 drew from his breast pocket a flat case of dark blue suede, 
 bound in silver. He bit the point off a cigar and lighted it. 
 All the time his thoughts were weaving glowing pictures of 
 the future. He was very sure of himself and he thought he 
 had some reason to be sure of — her, but he did not mean 
 to hurry matters. It had always seemed to him that the 
 early days of a courtship must be, ought to be, sweeter, 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 almost, than any others. There was so much to learn — on 
 both sides. And how delicious would be the lessons — given 
 and taken ? 
 
 He held the cigar between his fingers and threw back his 
 head : a slow, triumphant smile stole over his dark face. 
 How lovely she was ! How dainty — how altogether 
 delicious ? 
 
 And then he thought of her indignation at his want of 
 proper appreciation for money and for what she called 
 fame." 
 
 And the artist within him laughed aloud. For he knew it 
 was only a question of time and that " fame " — something 
 worth having, must lie at his feet. He had the humility 
 of a great talent, but also he had the courage and pride 
 of it. 
 
 And money ? His face grew more serious as he thought 
 of that, in connection with the girl of his heart. She loved it 
 for what it could give her, and what could be more natural ? 
 But would it be difficult for him to teach her the true value 
 of money — and of the things it can purchase? She was 
 herself a human flower, rare and exotic : she was very 
 finished, from the tips of her shell-like finger nails to the 
 heavy folds of hair, pale gold and soft as spun silk that 
 crowned her proud little head. 
 
 She was exquisite and surely it could not be difficult to 
 teach a creature so lovely the precepts of true aestheticism ? 
 To make her realize that it was better worth while to possess 
 a single vase, perfect in design and execution, carrying a 
 single rose — vase and rose worthy of admiration running 
 in leash with worship, than to be the owner of "masses of 
 costly flowers" as described in the newspapers — which had 
 no meaning except that they supplied a poster-like splash 
 of colour. 
 
 Bering knew that his own weakness consisted largely in 
 his hyper-sensitive aestheticism. He had, in an exaggerated 
 degree, the power, common in Japan, of worshipping a thing 
 
142 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 of real beauty and he abhorred — here again the spirit of 
 exaggeration entered — the Western habit of indiscriminate 
 overcrowding. The most generous of men, and naturally 
 careless with money, he understood the vagaries, even con- 
 doned them, of eclectic aestheticism. In the old home in 
 Paris there was a little chamber set apart — specially decorated, 
 and paved in black and white mosaics — which he had dedi- 
 cated to a single piece of statuary, the gift of an old friend. 
 It was insignificant in size — ^just the bust of a laughing girl 
 breasting a foamy wave, but it was instinct with life and, in 
 its own way, a flawless gem. Bering loved it and it was his 
 fancy, when in Paris, to stand a living plant, a pure, white 
 lily, just inside the door of the little chamber with the sea- 
 green walls. The flower reminded him of the laughing girl, 
 borne up on a buoyant wave, and the girl — might have been 
 the portrait of Violet Hilliard ! 
 
 Was it chance — that strange likeness? And was there 
 such a thing as chance " ? He thought not ! 
 
 All his life, in half-forgotten dreams and in blurred 
 imaginings, he had seen that face — or something very like 
 it. Violet Hilliard in the delicious flesh, cream white and 
 palest rose as the herald of dawn, he had never seen until 
 this autumn, in Rome. But she had been created for him : 
 of that he was certain. And many times, in dreams and in 
 imaginings, he had caught a glimpse of her : a fleeting glimpse, 
 but sufficiently vivid to keep him faithful to his ideal. He 
 had always known that she existed — somewhere ; his mate ; 
 his wife — who was to share everything with him, even his 
 most "impossible'' ideas. 
 
 He had met her and since that blessed moment his life 
 had seemed filled with sweetest music. He had not spoken 
 of his love — indeed he had only just realized its full strength, 
 but already he tasted triumph. He would woo her and win 
 her — that most surely : and then he would make her life a 
 dream of pure delight. 
 
 A clock chimed and he recognized, with surprise, the late- 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 143 
 
 ness of the hour. He threw away the burnt-out cigar and 
 turned towards the Via GiuHa. 
 
 He smiled a little shamefacedly as his thoughts wandered 
 to the portrait he had undertaken to paint for Miss Hilliard, 
 his sister's friend : the portrait of the girl who had bewitched 
 him. 
 
 He knew that, for the first time in his life, he was using 
 his art as a mask, from behind which he was communing 
 with the little blind god. He had made many studies for the 
 picture — especially of the little white hands he thought so 
 exquisite : but were the studies necessary — so many of them ? 
 And why had he made them so slowly and with such infinite 
 care ? 
 
 He had the courage to answer the questions truthfully, 
 if silently. And he felt a little ashamed. His training, all 
 round, had been severe. From his uncle, from Eugene 
 Carriere, from Rodin, from Doyenbert, he had learnt the 
 lesson that Art is an inexorable mistress who demands 
 nothing less than the whole life of her devotees? And he 
 was coquetting with her — for the moment? 
 
 He was a little ashamed but exceedingly triumphant. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 AFTER the night of the supper at the Palazzo della 
 Rocca, Princess Borizoff often found herself thinking 
 of the Irish painter. Indeed, he became so tangled in her 
 thoughts that she felt irritated. She was an imperious 
 woman, unaccustomed to giving consideration to anything 
 that did not run in leash with her own ideas, but she was 
 conscious that she had been discourteous, almost rude; 
 and in her code want of courtesy to one in an inferior 
 position was inexcusable. 
 
 But with this thought came a fresh difficulty. Was the 
 painter's position inferior, and in what respect ? 
 
 And then the restless spirit of irritation sprang to the 
 front again and set before her the certainty that the painter 
 himself would merely smile at the suggestion, and that she 
 would find it impossible to read his smile. 
 ' She had heard a great deal about him from Bianca della 
 Rocca, and she was too proud to disguise from herself the 
 fact that she had gone out of her way to gain the informa- 
 tion. She had not asked questions, but she had directed 
 the conversation, and Bianca, the soul of unsuspecting 
 simplicity, had run on with enthusiasm. It was evident that 
 the della Rocca family liked the painter well, and equally 
 evident that they considered him a budding genius. She 
 had heard, from the Cardinal, of the portrait of the Holy 
 Father which had been entrusted to Bering, and she had 
 tried, without great success, to disguise her thoughts. The 
 old Cardinal had looked at her with twinkling eyes, and 
 she had felt a little disconcerted. In fact, a certain feeling 
 of discomposure seemed connected, irrevocably, with her 
 thoughts of the painter, and it fed her irritation. Why 
 
 144 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 145 
 
 should a young and unknown man, an iconoclast in matters 
 of ethics as well as matters of art, have the power to 
 make her feel mentally small? To make her feel that she 
 had acted like a naughty child, and that an effort had been 
 made to cover her mistake ? 
 
 She had found it possible to dislike the audacious painter, 
 but she had not been able to deny his strength, and mental 
 strength was the one quality she permitted herself to admire 
 with enthusiasm. 
 
 To Clio Waring she had preserved a contemptuous 
 silence on the subject of Miles Bering. She had indicated 
 that she considered him outside the pale which surrounded 
 her life, and had felt pleased when she saw the genuine 
 disappointment on her friend's face. 
 
 Gabrielle Borizoff was capable of cruelty, of a subtle kind 
 and not physical, but she was also strongly imbued with a 
 love of justice, and it humiliated her to realize that she 
 had permitted herself, in a moment of anger, to be unjust 
 as well as rude to a man who had been, just at first at 
 any rate, her guest. She had thought it all over and then 
 she had acted. 
 
 She had written to Bering and asked him to call upon 
 her, mentioning a day and hour. 
 
 And on this late autumn afternoon she was waiting for 
 him in her favourite green and white salon, and as she 
 waited a sensation, which in anyone less self-possessed 
 might have been designated nervousness, brought a faint tinge 
 of colour to her delicate cheeks. She was dressed, as was 
 her custom in the afternoon, in white : one of those amaz- 
 ingly simple and supremely complicated robes of fragile 
 crepes and soft silks which are created by great dress artists 
 for their favourite clients. Thrust into the folds of a supple 
 scarf of shell-pink satin, wound round her slender waist, 
 was a cluster of Malmaison carnations, and her only jewels 
 were the lustrous diamonds and milk-white pearls which 
 covered her fingers to the knuckles. She looked very 
 10 
 
146 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 beautiful but a little impatient as she glanced at a silver 
 clock on a table by her side : just at that moment Bering was 
 announced. 
 
 When he crossed the room to receive her greeting she 
 was conscious that there was a question in his face. Why 
 had she done it? What had been her motive in asking 
 him to her house? 
 
 He bent with the grace of a practised courtier over her ex- 
 tended hand, and then stood erect and looked at her. 
 
 And now the question made itself felt as though words 
 had been spoken. Gabrielle motioned him to a seat, and 
 the servants entering with a tea table made a momentary 
 diversion. When they had silently passed out and shut the 
 door she looked at him. 
 
 **My note surprised you? You wondered why I wrote it, 
 considering that we are almost strangers ? " 
 
 " Yes. I think I wondered ! Of course, it was most 
 kind of you to remember me and to give me an opportunity, 
 perhaps, of seeing your art treasures ? 
 
 He spoke very simply, nevertheless the colour on the 
 woman's face deepened ever so slightly. She paused a 
 second, and then said: 
 
 ''I invited you here because I wish to offer you an 
 apology. I think, indeed I feel sure, I was discourteous to 
 you the other evening at the theatre, and afterwards at the 
 Palazzo della Rocca. You irritated me a little, and I am 
 not very patient. I was discourteous and I regret it. Will 
 you accept my apology ? " 
 
 Two pairs of dark eyes met and exchanged confidences. 
 Then a change showed itself on the painter's face ; he looked 
 genuinely pleased. 
 
 **But of course! And there was not the least need for 
 such a thing only — I a?n pleased." 
 
 He spoke with enthusiasm, and his boyish manner 
 made her smile. She sat up straight in her lounge 
 chair. 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 147 
 
 " What a boy you are ! And why are you so pleased ? 
 You find it agreeable to see me humiliated? " 
 
 Bering looked at her. Then he shook his head and 
 laughed. 
 
 "You aren't a bit humiliated. On the contrary you're 
 enjoying one of the big moments of your life. Only the truly 
 great can express regret genuinely. And then from you to 
 me ? You who are, I am very sure, a law unto yourself, and I 
 who was in no position to cast a stone ? For I had not been 
 too respectful — had I ? '' 
 
 I am sure your thoughts were not respectful, if you mean 
 that?" 
 
 He looked mischievous but penitent as he pressed his 
 hands together in an attitude of prayer. 
 "Peccavi! '' he said softly. 
 
 The Princess stared, and her slow smile deepened into 
 an expression of introspective amusement. She was laughing 
 at herself as she realized that she was already beginning to 
 understand why so many of her friends made much of this 
 audacious young painter. He had "a little way with him," as 
 the old Cardinal had said in quoting an Irish friend. 
 
 Dering looked up. 
 
 "You are amused at some thought which you don't 
 mean to share with me but, no matter. You may laugh 
 at me now as much as you like for we are nearly — quite 
 nearly, I think — friends." The suggestion was audacious, 
 made to that particular woman, but she received it with a 
 smile. 
 
 "Very well," she said sententiously. "And now let me 
 offer you my bread and salt, or muffins and salt, or anything 
 that may be under those covers." 
 
 She made a movement towards the tea table, but Dering 
 intercepted her. 
 
 "Oh, please don't move. Let me make the tea? In- 
 deed, I know all about it : it's a speciality of mine. Please 
 sit still and allow me to do everything. You look delicious 
 
148 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 in that big chair, against the light. You make what people 
 call 'a picture.'" 
 
 He busied himself deftly amongst the tea-cups and muffin 
 dishes and the Princess lay back against her satin cushions and 
 watched. 
 
 She was enjoying a new experience. 
 
 Here was a man, young, and keenly alive to the attrac- 
 tions of physical beauty, who had managed to place himself 
 on terms of extraordinary intimacy with her, in a few short 
 minutes, but who remained calm and self-possessed as if 
 taking tea alone with his sister ! 
 
 She found his manner baffling. 
 
 He was not in the least afraid of her. It was evident 
 that he did not give a thought to her wealth, her position, 
 her reputation as a capricious charmeuse. 
 
 She was to him, of this she felt sure, just a woman with whom 
 he felt in some sympathy. It was impossible to deduce, from 
 his manner, that he even found her exceptionally beautiful. 
 
 The experience was amazing but she acknowledged its 
 attractions. She watched him with open amusement as he 
 carefully added butter to her muffin, and he, glancing up, 
 caught her smile. 
 
 **Ifs most important, I assure you, that it should be 
 done just this way. These are excellent muffins ; I see your 
 cook knows how to toast them." 
 
 Gabrielle laughed outright. 
 He ought to," she said. 
 
 Because he is a cordon bleu f That has nothing to do 
 with it. The cook at the British Embassy gets a salary that 
 would keep me in luxury for a couple of years, but he's the 
 veriest duffer about toasting muffins. I made Tuke take me 
 into the kitchens one afternoon and I gave him a lesson. 
 Old Sir Francis has been blessing me ever since. I believe, 
 as a sign of gratitude, he means to ask me to paint his 
 portrait, orders and all ! " 
 
 The Princess smiled tentatively. It had entered her 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 149 
 
 mind to suggest something which she thought might please 
 this extraordinary young man. 
 
 propos of portraits," she said. "Are you very much 
 occupied just now? I thought of asking you if you could 
 find time to paint mine?" 
 " ^72^/- portrait ? 
 
 There was surprise in the tone, and something very like 
 apprehension. The Princess looked amazed. 
 " The idea does not please you ? 
 
 Bering sat up very straight and rested his hands on his 
 knees. He was evidently perturbed. 
 
 " It^s not that — of course. Only, I don^t see what I could 
 make of a portrait of you. I don't believe I have ever seen 
 you, and I'm not at all sure that you would allow me to 
 see you — ever." 
 
 *^Not seen me?" 
 
 " I don't believe I have — really." 
 
 "Then you cling to the idea that I constantly wear a 
 mask?" 
 
 He smiled. 
 
 " But that's obvious." 
 
 "You think then that people ought to lay bare their real 
 thoughts and ideas ? " 
 
 " He shook his head very decidedly. 
 
 " No ! I only meant to suggest that I don't know how to 
 deal with the art of the theatre. I can admire the ingenious 
 construction of the masks worn by women of the world, or 
 women of the theatre, but simulated emotions baffle me." 
 
 " But just consider what would happen if we, for a 
 single moment, put aside the necessary little veilings you elect 
 to call * masks'? The world would resemble an ant-hill 
 which had been disturbed. People would run here and there 
 in a wild effort to recover mental balance. There would be 
 no landmarks." Bering looked amused. 
 
 " Exactly ! Only the disturbed ants would at least recog- 
 nize each other, and the unveiled denizen of your world 
 
150 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 wouldn't know his next-door neighbour. Most probably he 
 wouldn't know his own wife ! " 
 
 And you consider such a state of affairs desirable?" 
 "I think it very desirable that we should know something 
 of each other — we small creatures who are permitted a short 
 stay in this particular world. Here we are, each of us with a 
 heart and, I suppose, a soul: with the power to suffer and to 
 enjoy and to love and to hate : the power to make life rich 
 or poor. Here we are, whether we like it or not. And 
 doesn't it seem rather stupid to go about pretending — almost 
 always ? Each one of us is real, endowed with certain real 
 qualities — good, bad or indifferent. And our only value is 
 our reality. We are, in a way, rather like ships drifting about 
 on the sea of life, and what would happen if on real ships 
 misleading signals were used? You profess to admire pre- 
 tences, but if you happened to be hungry which would you 
 prefer, a beautiful glazed turkey made of papier macM^ like 
 those in the windows of a pastrycook's shop, or a homely 
 mutton chop ? The turkey might be much the prettier 
 article of the two, but — if you happened to be hungry?" 
 
 "But do you think we are ever * hungry' for the real 
 houghts and feelings of our fellow-ants?" 
 
 I am." 
 
 " You are then an Apostle of Nature ? " 
 
 "I know that Nature is the only thing worth bothering 
 about. What is Art — any art — but an understanding of 
 Nature? The foundation of everything worth while must 
 be Nature. Of course when the foundation is firmly set one 
 can give reign to personal temperament. The alphabet of all 
 the arts is the alphabet of life, and it's composed of just 
 six letters — Nature. If you don't know the alphabet of a 
 language you can't make words. You can't adequately 
 express yourself." 
 
 " But a keenly observant person ought to be able to read 
 between the lines. He ought to be able to divine which is 
 mask and which is reality." 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 *^In a woman of the world? In you — for example?" 
 She made a gesture of assent. Bering shook his head. 
 
 "A dangerous experiment! In the arts, as in life, the 
 important point is the just appreciation of values. If one's 
 values are wrong the picture, statue, book, scheme of life — all 
 will be distorted and out of proportion." 
 
 "And it is because you are afraid of getting your values 
 wrong that you refuse to paint my portrait ? " 
 
 **Yes. Because I am very sure I should get my values 
 wrong ! How could it be otherwise ? You have grown so 
 accustomed to wearing masks, varied, intricate and subtle, 
 that it would be very difficult even for you yourself to 
 separate the wheat from the tares. You — since you permit 
 me to speak personally — have adopted a particularly com- 
 plicated series of masks, for you wish to deceive yourself as 
 well as those around you. You have, deliberately and with 
 intention, crossed swords with Nature.'' 
 
 " You do not think you are drawing inspiration from your 
 imagination ? " 
 
 No j from what I know to be actual fact. You have 
 often said to yourself — *yes, I have this lovely quality and 
 that tender little impulse but they are commonplace things, 
 and I am going to stifle them. I do not want them, and no 
 one else shall have a chance of enjoying them.' And then it 
 has happened that when one of these divine little impulses 
 has insisted on making itself felt, when it has mustered courage 
 to tap rather loudly against the door of your heart, you have 
 sent out your spirit of masks to muzzle it. Yes — indeed it's 
 true " — in answer to a mocking smile. Of course the happen- 
 ings at the supper at the Palazzo della Rocca are now com- 
 pletely wiped out, but to explain my meaning let me remind 
 you of your feelings when the Duca said, * if anyone had done 
 all that for me when I was Gigi's age I should not be sitting 
 in this chair now.' You like him very much and you like the 
 Duchessa ; you knew very well it was worth while to help that 
 small boy to buck up and make a fight of it, but you wouldn't 
 
i52 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 allow your real nature to speak. You wanted to hit me^ and 
 for the moment you didn't care how much you hurt the others. 
 I was studying you that night, and I almost saw that small 
 spirit of sympathy struggling to the front, only to find itself 
 smothered in an inartistic mask and hustled aside." 
 ^*Mr Bering ! 
 
 There was amazement and displeasure in the voice, and 
 the painter looked up questioningly. Then, as a faint smile 
 stole across her beautiful face, he became suitably penitent. 
 
 " Please forgive me ; I remind myself of a Socialist friend 
 of mine, who is only happy when he can mount the handrail 
 of a wagonette in Hyde Park and harangue the people until 
 he has bawled himself hoarse. Of course you'll never ask me 
 here again — I couldn't expect it, but somehow, you tempted 
 me to talk. I wish to think that you are nearly as much in 
 fault as I am.'' 
 
 Her sense of humour won the day and she smiled outright. 
 
 *^0h, yes, I shall ask you here again, and often. You 
 interest me very much, and I begin to feel interested in my- 
 self, now that you have taken me a little way behind the 
 scenes. I do not think any other person has ever seen me 
 with your eyes — certainly no one has said so, but you are 
 refreshing. I think I shall appoint you my secular confessor ; 
 I believe that with you, as with a Priest in the Confessional, 
 one would be quite safe from betrayal." 
 You pay me a high compliment." 
 
 A wandering breeze stole in from the terrace, the Princess 
 shivered slightly, and he crossed the salon to a couch on 
 which was thrown a scarf of snowy satin and marabou. He 
 brought it to her and gently wrapped it round her shoulders. 
 There was something characteristic, something very definite 
 about the action. It was gentle, almost caressing but decisive. 
 It seemed to show her his attitude towards women, and it 
 made her appreciate his powers of observation. So far as she 
 knew he had never turned his eyes in the direction of the 
 distant couch, yet he knew that her wrap was lying on it. 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 153 
 
 She smiled as she thanked him and nestled down amongst 
 the soft feathers. 
 
 ^* I wonder if I might speak quite frankly to you?" she 
 said. Bering smiled and nodded his head. "Well — since 
 you so much admire what is natural I will tell you what is in 
 my mind. I have a wish that we should sweep away con- 
 ventions and become friends. Will you consent ? Will you 
 speak to me without restraint — as you would to an old 
 friend?" 
 
 He looked at her steadily; his eyes were grave and 
 searching. 
 
 " So far as may be possible — yes. Since you wish it.'' 
 
 You mean that there must be reservations? " 
 "Naturally — if you elect to discuss personal subjects. 
 But I don't imagine my personality would interest you very 
 much?" 
 
 I think it would." 
 He shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " Well — where shall we begin ? Past, present or 
 future ? " 
 
 " I think I want first to find out wky you said, the other 
 night at the theatre, that I am an Idealist ? " 
 
 " Ah — that's better. I much prefer the delicate and 
 subtle hors-d^ceuvres to the more easily-digested rdti^ 
 
 " You consider yourself particularly digestible ? " 
 
 " Fairly so. Certainly very much more so than certain 
 mysterious hors-d^oeuvres which tempt the palate and confuse 
 the healthy taste." 
 
 " Has anyone ever accused you of lack of audacity ? " 
 
 " Absolutely no one ! But then my audacity is diluted 
 with a keen sense of justice. If people — even beautiful 
 Princesses — say * let us become friends ' they say a big 
 thing. Friends have equal rights — they are sexless. The 
 stronger must help the weaker, that's all." 
 
 " I suppose you mean me to understand that I am not to 
 look for mercy ? " 
 
154 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 " I mean, chlre Madame^ that now when you ask me a 
 question I shall give the true answer — or remain silent." 
 
 *'Yes?" The Princess pressed her head against the 
 cushions of her chair for a moment and closed her dark eyes. 
 She had a strange sensation of being carried out of her depth. 
 Then a little whimsical smile curved her lips and she looked 
 at her guest through half-closed eyes. 
 
 "Have you any special engagements this afternoon? I 
 wish to have plenty of time to discuss — the rdtiP 
 
 There was something infectious about Bering's laugh. It 
 was extraordinarily boyish. It was several seconds before 
 his face was again serious. 
 
 Engagements, except the one in which I am now taking 
 delight, do not exist. I am at your service — entirely and 
 completely. But you must remember that after the roti come 
 the exciting savouries and they are never of the male sex." 
 
 "Monsieur Bering — I think we have decided to leave 
 sex out of the question and I have ultra-modern ideas. I 
 prefer to finish with the rdti.^^ 
 
 He bowed his head in mock submission and waited. She 
 hesitated a moment and then continued : 
 
 " You said I had the hands of an idealist. Bid you mean 
 that ? And what led you to suppose such a thing ? 
 
 "I believe I wanted to tease you — ^just a little, but of 
 course you know you are an idealist. More than that — you're 
 what people call * a sentimentalist.' " 
 
 " I ? " 
 
 " Yes ! And you have hidden away somewhere a great 
 well of sympathy and understanding. And it's because I 
 know that well exists that I think it's such an awful pity you 
 should be dominated by the spirit of masks. Sympathy is 
 great, but understanding — the brand you possess — is divine. 
 It can do more to oil the wheels of life than any other 
 thing." 
 
 " But why should you — who know little or nothing of me — 
 suppose that I possess these qualities ? " 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 155 
 
 "You think I know little or nothing of you? I assure 
 you youVe mistaken ! I know how much and how little you 
 like flowers. I know how much and how little you consider 
 people. I know how much — there's no * little ' in this 
 connection — you're the creature of custom. I know that you 
 might be an Empress and that you elect to be a slave. I 
 know that it's your habit to mock at people and ideas and 
 actions — and at yourself! I know lots of other things about 
 you but perhaps these are sufficient — for the present ? '' 
 
 " You are an extraordinary person! " 
 
 The Princess was sitting up straight now and was gazing 
 at her visitor with eyes full of genuine amazement. He kept 
 his face quite serious for a second or two and then a smile 
 broke loose. 
 
 " I ought to be in a lunatic asylum — so lots of the fellows 
 here say. Well — Princess, there's yet time for you to draw 
 back. Our compact of friendship has not been sealed. Shall 
 I consider my name effaced from your visitors' list ? " 
 
 "No — anything but that! I have appointed you my 
 secular confessor and you shall have all the rights belonging 
 to such an important office. Here is my hand upon the 
 contract." She stretched out her hand towards him and 
 Dering extended one of his, as a brown pillow, to receive 
 it. He bent his head and touched the creamy skin with 
 his lips. 
 
 "Signed and sealed. It was awfully cheeky of me to 
 say those things, but really — you are too splendid to be a 
 slave." 
 
 " You mean that I do not try to liberate myself from the 
 camisole de force of idiotic customs ? " 
 
 " Just that. And it's no end of a pity. There are lots of 
 people who are really, genuinely, satisfied with the world of 
 masks : who are not really wearing masks at all since they 
 have not got it in them to do anything but troop after the 
 wether bell. They were born sheep, and sheep they have 
 remained — and they are quite happy. It's their nature to 
 
156 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 say * yes ' when someone else says * yes ' and * no ' when all 
 the rest of the sheep say *no.' Fashion is their god and 
 Custom is their high-priest. They are incapable of originality 
 — of thought, word or action ! But you ? That's a very 
 different matter. You have so many fine qualities — nearly all 
 the necessary ones for a perfect life, and yet you permit 
 yourself to be led by custom ; you even permit yourself to be 
 bored by custom. You mock at any other world than Le 
 monde ou Von s^ennuie and yet you're like Chateaubriand — 
 Touriste^ Ambassadeur, Ministre or amant, a peine arrivi il 
 s^ennuieJ'^ 
 
 " Yes. That is very true. I am bored to death, almost 
 always. I believe everyone is." 
 
 "You are mistaken. People who have the courage to 
 study Nature's alphabet are never bored ; they find too much 
 to learn." 
 
 You really think that? You do not admit that the study 
 of Nature might become a little monotonous ? " 
 Bering laughed softly. 
 
 " I wasn't thinking about country roads and racing clouds 
 just then. Nature means something besides flowers and 
 fields and people who are uncertain about the use of a fork. 
 For instance, you, the most cultured and exotic of women, are 
 interesting — at least to me — because of the impress Nature 
 has left upon you, mentally and physically. One could never 
 be bored in your society because one would always have 
 something fresh to learn. Just why your eyes should be free 
 agents while your lips, usually the tale-bearers of the face, are 
 well under control? Why your hands should be cruel and 
 tender and never, in any line, the hands of a mother ? Why 
 you should hold the world in contempt and yet permit it to 
 rule your life? Those and many other things." 
 
 " You are very observant ! " 
 You do not now accuse me of too much imagination?" 
 
 She smiled deprecatingly. 
 No. I admit that you know your way behind the scenes 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 157 
 
 — more or less, but I do not admit that the study of Nature 
 is, or could be, a cure for ennui. We were not all made in 
 the same mould. The thing that might interest you might not 
 interest me at all." 
 
 " Of course. But in the realities of life there are elements 
 which must interest everyone. There are enough, and all 
 different, to go round many times." 
 
 " But suppose I do not care about these realities?'' 
 
 "But you do. You know very well that to have value 
 a thing must be genuine —whether it be a picture or a vase or 
 a length of lace or — a woman ! The imitation stuff may be 
 very pretty but it has no value. Anyone with an intelligent 
 eye and a clear brain will quickly see behind the pretence and 
 then the thing won't be given house room. These real things 
 may not be attractive, some of them, but they cannot fail to 
 possess interest. You may not feel in sympathy with a single 
 word uttered by some genuine thinker, but his ideas cannot 
 fail to interest you, simply because they are the outcome of 
 original matter, not a warmed-up hash of popular opinion. 
 And it's so right through." 
 
 The dark eyes of the woman wandered over the brown 
 face which she was beginning to find very attractive. She was 
 not prepared to agree with the painter's ideas but as to the 
 charm of his personality she had no doubt. He was bent on 
 undermining the foundations of her world, but he pleased 
 her. 
 
 "Mr Dering," she said, "I wonder if you are overlooking 
 the gulf which lies between the temperament simple and the 
 temperament complex? Is it not possible that you are not 
 allowing for differences — immense differences — in education 
 and environments?" 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "I don't believe we should agree with regard to those 
 temperaments — * simple' and * complex'. Your world never 
 tires of deriding so-called simple things and people, but it not 
 infrequently happens that the simple ones of the earth are 
 
158 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 finely aesthetic. Of those devastating microbes iant and trop 
 which rob your life of half its joys they know nothing, and for 
 that very reason it sometimes happens that for them the pink 
 flame of cherry-blossom in April calls up visions of subtle 
 delight. You are all terribly cultured, oppressively civilized, 
 you dwellers in le monde ou Pon s^ennuie, but I know simple 
 creatures whose lives would seem to you utterly banal who 
 could teach you what aestheticism really means; how much 
 poetry is embraced in the folded heart of one of these roses 
 with which your salon is so crowded. Take the single 
 instance of flowers. What are they really to you ? Are they 
 not just scenic effects? Things which help to make your 
 salon ultra-luxurious?" 
 
 " You think I do not love flowers ? 
 I think you like them, chiefly, because they are decora- 
 tive. If you really loved them you would take trouble to see 
 they were not crushed together so that their dainty dresses 
 must suffer, and you wouldn't order them to be thrown out by 
 a careless servant when they had given you all the glory of 
 their lives/' 
 
 " But what can one do with faded flowers? It is necessary 
 to throw them away." 
 Bering smiled. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "all things faded have to be put away — 
 it's one of Nature's laws. Only, it seems to me that things 
 which have been very beautiful and sweet deserve special care 
 when the shadows have descended on them." 
 
 He spoke softly and his eyes grew dreamy as they 
 wandered out to the rose-bordered terrace, where the heralds 
 of twilight were already beginning to gather. The Princess 
 watched him intently. It was a little time before she broke 
 the silence. 
 
 " Since I have appointed you my secular confessor I think 
 I must ask you to explain something that puzzles me — a little. 
 You are a keen observer, that is certain, but I cannot follow 
 you when you accuse me of following the ^wether bell.' You 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 159 
 
 are the first person who has ever accused me of want of 
 originality." 
 
 He hesitated. Then he said : 
 
 " Certainly you are * original ' — because you wish to be 
 original. But don't you remember the phrase I quoted the 
 other night? — V originalite voulne 7iexiste pas. Si elk esi 
 voulue elle devient une convention! " 
 
 The Princess looked at him in silence. She was a very 
 intelligent woman and her thoughts were following the trail of 
 an unwelcome suggestion. 
 
 He was certainly extraordinary, this painter. 
 
 A faint smile stole into her face as she remembered having 
 heard Dr Doyenbert say, in Bianca della Rocca's salon : 
 Dering sait voir ce que nous ne voyons plus a force de le 
 voirJ^ 
 
 As the silence became oppressive she said : 
 " I cling more closely than ever to my idea that environ- 
 ments have immense influence on character. I find myself 
 wishing, very much, that I had had an opportunity of meeting 
 your uncle. I have heard of him from Mr Underwood. He 
 must have been a wonderful man." 
 
 "Uncle Jack? Oh — I don't think he was wonderful. 
 He was just one of the best, but I am not at all sure that you 
 would have liked him. He was a terribly downright person 
 and his ideas were simple enough to be dubbed primeval. I 
 often look back with delight, though it didn't seem at all 
 funny at the time, to a most unmerciful thrashing he gave me 
 when I was a youngster. I forget what I had actually done 
 but I know he believed I'd been false to his code of decent 
 conduct. He had an ^^arm like a blacksmith and his temper 
 was up. Between the whacks of the cane, as a sort of 
 enif^acte^ he said — I have never forgotten the exact words — 
 * You miserable young cub, don't you know that you're not fit 
 to live if you don't give a chap a leg up when he has fallen ? 
 More than that, don't you know that hanging would be too 
 good for you if you gave him a kick when he was down?' 
 
i6o A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 For weeks my back was raw after that lesson and you may be 
 sure IVe never forgotten it. If you are interested in Uncle 
 Jack — there you have him ! The philosophy of his life was 
 contained in those words ! " 
 
 " And it was your uncle who made you think that money 
 is not an important element in every-day life?" 
 
 Bering looked surprised. 
 
 **But I know it to be a most important element. One 
 can do very little without it." 
 
 "And you resolutely refuse to make money — in an 
 ordinary way ? " 
 
 " You mean that I don't care about painting pretty pictures 
 of imaginary people ? " 
 
 " More or less ! With your views about helping people — 
 I have heard of them from Mrs Waring — I wonder you do 
 not think it necessary to make large sums of money — in any 
 honest way. You could do so much good with it." 
 
 The painter looked at her gravely. 
 
 "I wonder if you are speaking seriously? Yes? Well, 
 I don't mind confessing that you have put your finger on a 
 wobbly point in my philosophy. I see very clearly what can 
 be done with money, but then I also see clearly that one owes 
 a good deal to oneself. It's so fatally easy to argue to a finish 
 from different stand-points that the only thing to do, I think, 
 is to remain true to one's ideal — if such an ideal exists. 
 Uncle Jack used to say that I could be led almost anywhere 
 by sentiment, and as he had an absolute horror of pot-boilers 
 he had me taught a craft. He knew that if I ever chanced 
 to see the light I should necessarily have to do a good deal 
 of groping before I could reach it and he recognized the 
 necessity for bread-and-butter-money." 
 
 " And your ' craft ' ? " 
 
 The Princess spoke eagerly. She made no secret of the 
 fact that her interest was aroused. 
 
 "Oh, wood-carving. I have done some fairly nice little 
 things. I learned a lot when I was in Japan with my friend 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS i6i 
 
 Takeda, who is a famous wood-carver. Do you care for that 
 sort of thing ? Will you let me send you up a small Japanese 
 girl, a shirabyoshi, in box-wood ? It is a quaint little thing, 
 about eight inches high; I think you would like it. You 
 have read Hearn's Glimpses of Unfamiliar Japan? You 
 remember the chapter, * Of a dancing girl ' ? Takeda and 
 I were travelling from Kyoto to Yedo when I first read it 
 and that dancing girl haunted me. He painted a kakemono 
 for me from the written description of the one done by ^ the 
 Master ' and I made several studies of the girl as she danced 
 in the night, alone, before her illuminated butsudan. I have 
 one of the figures here, I will send Chu up with it this 
 evening, if you will please me by accepting it.'' 
 "^Chu7" 
 
 " One of my little Jap boys." 
 
 The Princess hesitated a moment and then expressed her 
 genuine pleasure. Her visitor was, as she had said, ^ an extra- 
 ordinary young man,' but she already knew him well enough 
 to feel sure that he said exactly what he meant and that he 
 wished her to have the carved dancer. 
 
 She was feeling curiously alert. Never before had she 
 encountered a being so unexpected. 
 
 He was quite a young man, several years younger than she 
 was, and yet he spoke to her with the quiet assurance of a 
 grown-up person of kindly intentions addressing a spoiled child ! 
 
 It was an amazing experience — but she liked it. He was 
 refreshing as a deep breath of sea air on a sultry day. He 
 was audacious in words but his manner was so charming that 
 it was impossible to take offence. 
 
 It was obvious that, in the ordinary acceptation of the 
 words, he was no respecter of persons. But equally obvious 
 was the fact that he could respect, even reverence, qualities. 
 
 And already, deep down in her heart, a wish was throwing 
 out clinging roots : the wish that this man should learn, and 
 acknowledge, that she was not, really, one of those for whom 
 le monde ou Von s^ennuie sufficed. 
 II 
 
i62 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 When, at last, he rose to take leave she sent for a wrap of 
 velvet and ermine and accompanied him through the grounds. 
 There was a private gate on the lower terrace and she 
 indicated that he could go out that way. 
 
 As they walked together, slowly and with frequent halts 
 through the exquisite gardens, she learned something of his 
 feeling for flowers. It seemed impossible for him to pass a 
 rose-tree or a jasmine bush without stopping to gently take 
 away the dead or dying blossoms, and she noticed that the 
 rose petals always found their way into his coat pocket. 
 For some time she watched in silence; then she said very 
 quietly : 
 
 "Are you going to make potpourri?" 
 
 Bering hesitated. 
 Not with these ! You'll think me more than a little 
 faddy, but I've an idea that rose petals ought to be decently 
 buried, when possible. It seems a shame that such lovely 
 things must die, but since that's inevitable I think they ought 
 to go back to whence they came — to Mother Earth, I 
 generally find my pockets full of rose-leaves when I get to 
 Altieri^s in the morning and Gigi and I have a great time 
 burying them. I'm teaching him wood-carving and he is just 
 now doing a rather wonderful monument for our special 
 Niphetos grave ! He has a vivid imagination, that small boy : 
 he has made a really clever design of a girl's head bursting 
 from the unfolding petals of a white rose-bud. Altieri thinks 
 me quite mad, but since I am evidently harmless he humours 
 me!" 
 
 Princess Borizoff walked late in her rose garden that 
 evening. Her servants, accustomed to her caprices, did not 
 venture to remind her that the ordinary hour for dinner had 
 come and gone, or that she had arranged to attend two 
 important receptions that night. When, at last, she slowly 
 returned to the upper terrace the little Japanese boy, Chu, 
 was awaiting her. She took from his slender hands the dainty 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 163 
 
 dancing girl and marvelled at its exquisite workmanship and 
 at the quaint conceit of the design. The tiny figure gave the 
 impression of vivid motion. On the little face there seemed 
 the glory of love. 
 
 In a few words she dictated notes which cancelled her 
 engagements for the evening, and she dined alone — in the 
 marble loggia of which Rome had talked so much and seen 
 so little. 
 
 And later on, in the restless silence of night, moonlit 
 yet sombre, with the mingled fragrance of jasmine and roses 
 and pale white lilies holding communion with her senses, 
 and something — she knew not what — vibrating the chords 
 of memory, she read again the story of the popular idol 
 who had given up fame and wealth for the sake of 
 Love. 
 
 And it seemed to her very beautiful. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 THE weather was magnificent. 
 October, always one of the most delicious months of the 
 year at Rome, gave place to November and still the days 
 were full of sunshine and the nights were warm. 
 
 For Bering the atmosphere of the Eternal City was 
 charged with excitement. 
 
 The portrait of Violet Hilliard had progressed — slowly it 
 must be admitted — but progressed, up to a certain day when 
 the Comtesse de Brissac had visited the studio unexpectedly 
 and found painter and sitter having tea together, in a snug 
 corner and unchaperoned. 
 
 She had elected to be horrified and had made a little 
 scene. After that she had carried off her cousin to Florence 
 for a fortnight's visit to some friends. 
 
 Bering heard, through his sister, that at Florence the 
 Comtesse had encountered the elder Miss Hilliard — the aunt 
 with whom Violet had lived as a girl, and that many things 
 had been said which were not exactly pleasing to anyone 
 concerned. 
 
 Violet had herself written him a little note in which she 
 said — " A most unholy row, with Muriel backing the convenances 
 and Aunt Rachel unveiling them — Heaven only knows when I 
 shall be permitted to go out alone again ! " 
 
 The little scented note had spoken to him very inti- 
 mately and he had felt triumphant as he drew from the 
 envelope, with its dainty silver seal, a few rose petals — 
 fragrant and crimson as heart-blood. They brought him a 
 message — poetic, delicious. 
 
 For he and she had been talking of red roses on that 
 last afternoon, just before the arrival of the Comtesse. He 
 
 164 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 165 
 
 had been telling her the story of The Nightingale and the 
 Rose'' and she had found it wonderful. As he looked at 
 the single petals that dropped from the precious letter he 
 recalled the scene and her face as she listened while he spoke 
 of the rose-tree crowned with a single glorious blossom, 
 blood-red and peerless — of breaking dawn and of pale gold rays 
 creeping on and on until they gathered around the spot where 
 lay a little dead bird. The story of a love so wonderful that 
 it had willingly given its heart-blood had held her in 
 bondage, and he had seen tears in her eyes as he quoted — 
 " You shall have your red rose. I will build it out of music 
 by moonlight and stain it with my own heart's blood. All 
 that I ask of you in return is that you will be a true lover, 
 for Love is wiser than Philosophy, though she is wise, and 
 mightier than Power, though he is mighty. Flame-coloured 
 are his wings and coloured like flame is his body. His lips 
 are sweet as honey and his breath is like frankincense." 
 
 When he finished there had been a moment of eloquent 
 silence and when Bering looked back he realized that if an 
 interruption had not come the barriers would have been down 
 — his fate would have been decided, once and for ever. 
 
 And he found it impossible to say whether he was glad or 
 sorry that the great moment had been delayed ? 
 
 That Violet liked him, even very much, he knew, but did 
 she really love him — as yet? He had felt very confident 
 that afternoon at the Villa Medici, but since then the girl's 
 constant and unaccountable changes of mood had puzzled 
 him. Sometimes she had been divinely sweet and bewitching : 
 sometimes she seemed irritable and restless : once or twice 
 she was almost insolent. 
 
 He loved her, in each and every mood, but insolence he 
 would not accept — even from her, and she had been made to 
 see it. She had been made to realize that in a battle of wills 
 — their wills — but one result was possible. 
 
 Bering knew he had the power to dominate her but that 
 was not what he wanted. He wanted her love and complete 
 
i66 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 faith — freely given, and "for keeps.'' And he meant to have 
 that love and that faith ! 
 He knew how to wait. 
 
 But it was not alone in connection with his love story that 
 the painter found Rome charged with excitement that 
 autumn. 
 
 His friendship with Princess Borizoff had progressed by 
 leaps and bounds and he did not hesitate to admit to himself 
 that her companionship was stimulating and agreeable. 
 
 For some reasons, which he could not fathom, the 
 Princess seemed to wish to make a little mystery of her 
 growing intimacy with him. It was not his habit to talk to 
 his friends of his friends, but it had surprised him to find that 
 Madame Borizoff had not told Mrs Waring of his visits to the 
 villa or of the occasions on which he had accompanied her to 
 one or two of the galleries. 
 
 Since the Princess had elected to remain silent it was of 
 course not his place to speak — but he wondered. 
 
 And Mrs Waring herself was changed. She was charming 
 as ever but at times she seemed preoccupied ; and once, 
 when he had casually mentioned one of the societies in 
 which his sister was interested, she had shown unmistakable 
 irritation and had made a half-sneering remark about " some 
 people being too good to live." A moment later she had 
 laughed and declared that the unnatural warmth of the 
 weather had made her cross as a bear with a shot paw!" 
 The painter had taken the cue and for some moments they 
 had played ball, skilfully, with gay words ; but he was, just at 
 that time, seeing a good deal of the big American and he 
 knew that he was changed quite as much as Clio Waring. 
 
 And then from still another point came waves of magnetized 
 atmosphere. Doctor Doyenbert was prolonging his stay in 
 Rome from day to day and he was in a particularly difficult 
 humour. 
 
 The portrait of the Pope, in which he took such a keen 
 interest, was progressing rapidly and the painter, by his 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 167 
 
 silence, showed that he was not entirely dissatisfied with his 
 work, but the critic was not pleased. 
 
 He had, at the special request of the Holy Father, 
 accompanied Bering to the Vatican on two occasions and the 
 portrait had not satisfied him. 
 
 That the conception of the picture was masterly and the 
 likeness admirable he was willing to concede, but — he was not 
 satisfied : and his temper, and temperament, made the 
 possibility of failure, in this particular case, unendurable. 
 
 He had talked to and at Daring until the painter in 
 self-defence had reminded him that he could not stultify his 
 art even in the cause of friendship. I myself like the 
 picture," he had said. ''I like it so much that I feel 
 nervous — for that reason only. I remind myself that Rodin 
 and Carriere were both of opinion that the spirit of exaltation 
 generally heralds an order for a fresh canvas ! " 
 
 Doyenbert had laughed unpleasantly. **/feel no exalta- 
 tion," he had said. 
 
 It was natural that in Vatican circles the portrait of the 
 Holy Father should be freely discussed and on the Duchessa 
 della Rocca's first " Day " of the season many questions had 
 been asked and — discreetly evaded. 
 
 The Duchessa received in the afternoon, twice a month, 
 quite in the English fashion, and from four to six her great 
 salons were thronged. Princess Borizoif, looking radiantly 
 lovely in pearl grey velvet and sables, with a long, black 
 ostrich feather wound round the crown of her big picture hat, 
 had paid a short visit, en route for a go^lter bridge at the palace 
 of one of her compatriots. She had looked so beautiful that 
 voices had been hushed at her entrance, and Clio Waring 
 who was helping the Duchessa to entertain, had marvelled 
 more than ever at her matchless distinction. 
 
 The scene was an exceptionally brilliant one and from 
 time to time specially favoured guests were taken into one of 
 the smaller salons to spend a few minutes in conversation 
 with the old Cardinal, v;ho remained apart on such occasions. 
 
i68 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 When, however, the chief reception room, which was hung 
 in old yellow brocade and furnished in the First Empire style 
 — was only occupied by one or two intimate friends who had 
 lingered by special request — Cardinal Santanini came in, leaning 
 on Miles Bering's arm and talking animatedly to Doyenbert, 
 who was walking at his other side. 
 
 **My dear friend — I understand the position perfectly. 
 You miss something in this boy's portrait of the Holy Father, 
 something you expected to find. And shall I tell you what 
 you miss ? " 
 
 Doyenbert looked at the speaker sharply. 
 If your Eminence can ? " 
 
 ''Oh, yes — I can. You miss,'' and he accompanied the 
 words by a characteristic shake of the index finger of his 
 right hand, "what dear old Mrs Beresford would call 'that 
 awfully fascinating Jesuit look.'" 
 
 Doyenbert pulled up short. He looked from the preter- 
 naturally grave face of the handsome old man to the openly 
 amused face of the painter. Then he snorted. 
 
 " If your Eminence will deign to explain. I am afraid I 
 am not acquainted with the particular ' look ' to which you 
 refer." 
 
 " Oh, dear, yes, you are well acquainted with it, I am sure, 
 in one of its guises — for I am told that it does not always 
 wear the same outer garment. My dear old friend, who ought 
 to know since she was a Protestant long before she became a 
 Catholic, has spoken to me of at least three ' awfully fascinat- 
 ing Jesuit looks.' It appears that one of them is merely 
 bland, and at least one is blandly cunning, while one is 
 cunningly bland and blandly deceitful. I am sure there are 
 others but these will suffice ! It was one of these expressions 
 that you expected to find indicated in the portrait we have 
 been discussing." 
 
 Doyenbert compressed his lips as though with difficulty 
 keeping back some words. Dering arranged the Cardinal's 
 high-backed chair at the approved angle and gently let the 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 169 
 
 slender figure, in sombre black touched with red, sink into it. 
 For a second or two there was silence and then the old man 
 went on. 
 
 " You have wished this portrait to make an instant success 
 and you are afraid that it is — too quiet ? 
 
 Has your Eminence heard me say so ? 
 
 " No. But I have seen you look — doubtful. And then, 
 I can, I think, understand your point of view. People have 
 already shown themselves very ready to accuse our young 
 friend here of eccentricity. It would be natural that you 
 should not wish them to have the chance of accusing him of 
 the crowning eccentricity of making the Head of the Catholic 
 Church just a quiet-looking old man sitting in a chair. 
 People will certainly look for something sensational in which 
 a suspicion of deception might be faintly indicated : they will 
 not — I am sure this is your opinion — appreciate the expression 
 of inception." 
 
 Inception'?" 
 
 The Cardinal nodded as he glanced up at the painter. A 
 tinge of red mounted into the bronzed cheeks and the painter's 
 eyes gleamed. He was intensely pleased. 
 
 Doyenbert looked from one to the other for a moment or 
 two, and then again made the peculiar little sound which can 
 only be described as a snort. 
 
 " If your Eminence is satisfied? " he said grimly. 
 Entirely satisfied — and so is the Holy Father." 
 
 The critic bowed low and turned to address the Duchessa 
 who was sitting with Mrs Waring and Underwood at the other 
 side of the salon. The Cardinal motioned to the painter to 
 sit beside him. 
 
 Yes," he said softly, " we are pleased, the Holy Father 
 and I. You will be very great, my son : already you are 
 great, far more so than most of us suspect." 
 
 Bering bent his head reverently over the transparent hand 
 resting on the carved arm of the old-fashioned chair. 
 
 " Your Eminence is too kind to me." 
 
170 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 There was a pause and then the softly-modulated old voice 
 went on. 
 
 Someone has told me, I think it was my old friend the 
 Doctor, that you were, as a student, greatly influenced by the 
 works of Michelangelo — is that so ? Did you spend much 
 time in copying his masterpieces ? 
 
 '*Not exactly copying, your Eminence, but it is certain 
 that I learned more from Michelangelo than from any 
 other man — even Carriere. When I first visited Rome, about 
 eight years ago, I became so madly enthusiastic over Michel- 
 angelo that the moment I got back to Paris I got a big 
 studio and set to work to get a series of models to assume 
 the poses of his marvellous figures. I worked day and night, 
 but though I did from time to time snatch the correct poses 
 I never once caught the spirit. I was in absolute despair 
 and I used to rage round and round the big room, it was an 
 old coach-house, until I nearly frightened my wretched 
 models out of their senses. They in turn became so restless 
 that they couldn't keep still and I allowed them to walk about 
 as they pleased. And when they were perfectly natural and 
 in motion I found myself watching them, and as I watched 
 the clouds began to break ! Quite unconsciously they 
 assumed the poses I had been looking for, and as I watched 
 and studied I, also unconsciously, learned how to entrap 
 them. For the first time in my life I was studying Nature, as 
 Angelo had studied it and as Rembrandt had studied it. I 
 remember well the evening the truth revealed itself to me. 
 I was so excited that I couldn't contain myself but dashed 
 off without a hat to Carribre's studio and blurted it all out." 
 
 " I see. All that is very interesting — and very instructive. 
 But in the present case it has not been possible to study 
 Nature in that way ? It has been necessary for you to permit 
 your * model ' to sit still in a chair ? " 
 
 Dering smiled. 
 
 "Yes ! But then I have had a very able collaborator to 
 assist me. Indeed it is the bare truth that without the 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 171 
 
 advice and help of your Eminence I should never have made 
 a success of it — if I have done so. I have always had with 
 me the memory of that evening in your study when you spoke 
 to me of your idea of a portrait of the Holy Father. Just 
 then I don't think I quite realized all you meant, but it came 
 to me, httle by little. It was sublime — that idea of yours. 
 Not merely a portrait of a man, however exalted, but of the 
 Head of the Church ! You made me see it clearly, after I 
 had thought a little and then — your notion of an expression 
 of * inception '? " Bering looked across the room and 
 laughed softly. I wonder what he will say when he realizes 
 what you meant — if he ever does realize it ? 
 
 I am not quite sure. He is too brilliant, too fond of 
 analyzing thoughts and beliefs, to easily understand that 
 which is so simple that a child might read it and yet so grand 
 that angels might be pardoned for finding it bewildering. We 
 shall see.'' 
 
 The old man looked straight into Bering's eyes and for a 
 moment his delicate face, traced all over with tiny lines, 
 seemed as the face of a seer : it seemed as though his eyes 
 pierced the brain of the painter and gazed on into futurity. 
 
 There was a long silence and then Bianca's voice, luscious 
 in tone and distinctly contralto, made itself heard. 
 
 Uncle Pio — you must hear this! Boctor Boyenbert 
 does not consider Velasquez worthy of a place amongst the 
 great colourists ! What have you to say to that — you who 
 almost adore Velasquez and who place him, as a colourist, on 
 a line with Veronese ? " 
 
 The Cardinal arched his white brows. 
 
 "This is an important matter," he said; I think you 
 must all move camp and come to my side of the room. I am 
 not very polite, I fear, but my white hairs must plead for me — 
 and also my cat-hke fancy for always occupying the same 
 corner." 
 
 With a little rustle of silken linings the Buchessa, with 
 Clio Waring and Underwood, moved across the room, while 
 
172 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 Doyenbert followed, wheeling the Duca's invalid chair. When 
 they were all settled down the Cardinal opened fire. 
 
 Velasquez didn't know how to put on colour — was that 
 what you said, Doctor ? " 
 
 Doyenbert — who never sat when he could stand — was 
 leaning on the back of the Duca's chair, and as his old friend 
 spoke he looked up and grinned. 
 
 **Not exactly — but it doesn't matter. We had been 
 speaking of Eugene Carriere, and then of some of the things 
 the fellows here say of that young man on your left, and I 
 ventured to suggest that before one discussed colour one 
 ought to clearly understand what colour means — or might 
 mean. And then I cited Las Meninas^ in which the only 
 element of colour is the black of the garments opposed to the 
 pale clearness of the faces and hands. You may agree with 
 me, or you may not, but it is my opinion that the beauty of a 
 picture does not lie in the variety or the richness of isolated 
 tones but in their perfect harmony ; and harmony, in a picture, 
 depends on the distribution of Hght and in the truth with 
 which the gradations are noted and set down. A picture in 
 which the colours resembled patch-work might easily give a 
 weaker impression of colour than might an engraving in which 
 the values were absolutely true." 
 
 He looked at Dering as he spoke and the painter nodded. 
 
 "That's true," he said. "All that Carriere retained of 
 colour was light and shade, but then his eye was marvellously 
 sensitive to their gradations and to their harmonies. No 
 one observed Nature more strictly than he did, and no one 
 more strictly obeyed her essential laws." 
 
 "But there is colour — brilliant, flaring colour, in the 
 world ? " 
 
 Mrs Waring spoke eagerly and Doyenbert turned to her 
 with the careful patience of one addressing a child. 
 
 " Chire Madame — that of course ! But when depicting 
 Nature on canvas everything depends on the knowledge and 
 understanding of the artist. For example, take a genius such 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 173 
 
 as Paul Veronese — one of the greatest * colourists ' the world 
 has ever known. In what does the value of his paintings 
 consist ? In the fact that every tint has its own true value. 
 The richness of tone in his pictures, in which one meets with 
 everything that is brilliant in Nature, the radiance of precious 
 stones, flowers and sunsets, all these of course contribute to 
 the enchantment of his work, but its value is to be found in 
 the art with which the varied tints are combined, the harmony 
 with which they are blended. Dealt with by a less skilful 
 hand than that of Veronese, this crowd of glowing elements 
 might easily represent a tumult of glaring colours which 
 threatened to extinguish each other. You follow me — do 
 you not ? You understand what I mean when I say that in a 
 picture of Velasquez, even of Veronese, you might, if you 
 could, efface the colours, only keeping their luminous intensity, 
 and out of the remaining elements you would have a harmony 
 which, by reason of its sensitive charm, would give again the 
 first impression of the picture. An attenuated impression it 
 is true but none the less a correct one. To drive my meaning 
 home let us be personal. Bering's method of expression has 
 something abstract about it in the sense that he neglects 
 colour in its diverse shades. But then his vision is remark- 
 ably accurate and he has realized the primeval fact that 
 colours continually change. When he is at his best he con 
 structs his objects, portraits or any other thing by means of 
 light and its gradations, guided by an understanding of the 
 immense scale of values." 
 
 " You admit then that our friend here knows something of 
 portrait painting ? " 
 
 The Cardinal's whimsical smile called up a hum of light 
 laughter from the interested group, but the critic remained 
 unmoved. He was determined to interest his listeners. 
 
 '* * Something ' but not everything ! To be a great portrait 
 painter you must be a deep thinker, and you must never be 
 tempted to paint only what the eye sees at the first glance. 
 A great portrait painter occupies himself, above all, with the 
 
174 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 explanation of what he sees. He insists on knowing just 
 what it is that determines the modelling, the hollows and the 
 reliefs : the solid masses and the bony sub-structure. He 
 knows that form without weight or depth is only a lifeless 
 phantom. In this connection Carrifere said to me one day : 
 * I have noticed in Velasquez, even more than in da Vinci, 
 that the features of the face, the eyes, the nose and the mouth, 
 are prepared by the parts which surround them : by the arch 
 of the brows, the cheek bones and the jaws. If the features 
 were not there one would divine them.^ A portrait, to be 
 great, must be built up on a solid foundation ! The artist 
 must create the bony framework. He must construct the 
 arch of the brows, the cheek bones, the bones of the nose and 
 the jaw. On this strong stratum, the home of character, 
 slowly built up by ancestors, he must spread the mobile 
 muscles which are to come into play with each passing 
 emotion ; the eyelids, the cheeks, the wings of the nose, the 
 lips — all the parts of the face which quiver at the slightest 
 shock. He must realize that the momentary contractions of 
 these mobile features indicate passing emotions while their 
 habitual contractions mark out destinies." 
 
 " My dear Doctor — but where are you going to find portrait 
 painters built on such heroic lines as these ? " 
 
 Here^ if sentiment and — the softer sex, don't interfere ! 
 This fellow has it in him to be great, but unfortunately he is 
 Irish. It is a huge misfortune ! " 
 
 Bering laughed heartily. 
 For a Frenchman you are strangely lacking in polite- 
 ness," he said meaningly. " Am I the only Irish person in 
 this room ? " 
 
 Doyenbert wheeled round and bowed low, hand on heart, 
 before Mrs Waring. 
 
 " I do not need to ask for pardon. All the world knows 
 that an Irish woman is the most charming, as the most 
 puzzling and contradictory, creature in the world. When one 
 speaks of the misfortune of being Irish one always sees male ! " 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 175 
 
 Mrs Waring acknowledged the compliment with a malici- 
 ous smile and the Duca, who had been listening to the 
 conversation with close attention, broke in. 
 
 " Since we have an opportunity of hearing you speak of 
 the painter's art I should be immensely obliged if you would 
 explain one thing to me. I am, as you know, a great admirer 
 of Carriere, but I find it difficult to understand why he 
 painted so many pictures in a sort of mist — everything 
 indistinct? 
 
 **My dear sir, but in Nature is anything distinct? Do 
 you not remember what Houssay said on that particular 
 subject ? ' Nothing is completely distinct. To fix our ideas 
 let us start from the atmospheric air. Not alone does it 
 surround and bathe what we call form, but it penetrates it, it 
 dissolves itself in it and combines itself with it. Not alone is 
 there contiguity but there is continuity of substance between 
 the air and these forms because the oxygen incorporates itself 
 into their matter and comes out from it.' And looking at the 
 matter from still another point of view let me tell you that if 
 you were to follow a little volume of gas in the lungs, in the 
 blood and in the organs, you could not say with certainty at 
 what moment it ceases to become air and is transformed into 
 animal tissue. Nothing, absolutely nothings in Nature is 
 completely distinct from anything else." 
 
 The Duca sat back in his chair. He looked puzzled but 
 intensely interested. For him, forced as he was to pass the 
 greater part of his life in bed or in an invalid chair, the art of 
 the painter, as the art of the poet, possessed a sleepless 
 interest. His brain was active as his crippled body was, of 
 necessity, inert, and his wife, who adored him, never missed 
 an opportunity of gathering round him men of learning and 
 culture ; when Doyenbert was in Rome he was a welcome 
 guest at the Palazzo della Rocca for his unexpected ideas and 
 shrewd criticisms delighted the Duca and his long friendship 
 with the Cardinal gave him many privileges. 
 
 The quotation from Houssay seemed to have given everyone 
 
176 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 food for thought. It was the American who at last broke the 
 silence. 
 
 " I heard a man to-day say a rather curious thing about 
 your water-colour sketches. He said they recalled Japanese 
 art?" 
 
 Bering smiled. 
 Japanese art expressed by Western methods? Oh, I 
 acknowledge with genuine gratitude the debt I owe to 
 Japan — I learned a lot of things there. The Japs are 
 such tremendous admirers of Nature — they understand and 
 appreciate her to an extraordinary extent : and after all, what 
 is Art but a knowledge of Nature ? We don't really create 
 anything : we carUt^ for Nature has a monopoly of creation ! 
 I know little or nothing of the art of literature, but I'm sure 
 the same idea applies to that art, and to all others. The 
 Greeks simply copied what they saw, with a certain necessary 
 exaggeration of the character of the forms, but then they put 
 into their work a magnificent sincerity." 
 
 "You have some sensible ideas, Dering — even though 
 you are a sentimentalist. You are one of the very few 
 painters of my acquaintance who have realized that * la raison 
 cubique est la mattress e des choses et non pas Vapparence ! ' " 
 
 "You certainly have Rodin on the brain. Doctor! He's 
 a genius, but he goes very far in his ideas on the subject of 
 the dominion of geometry. One night at Meudon I heard 
 him flabbergast a whole roomful of enthusiasts by calmly 
 announcing that ^ les Grecs etaient simplement les savants, 
 Leur art c'est de la gSomitrie I ' " 
 
 Doyenbert rubbed his thin hands together. 
 
 "I wish I had been there — I can see those 'enthusiasts.' 
 Have you never watched the antics of the crowd when 
 confronted by a genius ? " The question was directed at the 
 Cardinal. "It is an entertaining sight, I can assure you. It 
 firmly believes him to be a raging lunatic, but something, a 
 newspaper paragraph or a criticism which had scored *an 
 inner,' makes it hesitate to openly scoff. That is to say 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 177 
 
 when the genius is a responsible-looking old gentleman — like 
 Rodin. In the case of genius in the bud," his glance at the 
 painter was eloquent, " tongues run amuck. It was a good 
 thing for your reputation, young man, that your far-seeing 
 uncle made you a fairly good imitation of a Maitre d' Amies, 
 That reputation goes a little way towards saving the 
 reputation which I take for granted you hold dear ? " 
 
 Bering had a funny little trick of half closing his eyes 
 and emitting a soft little bird-call, when he was amused. He 
 did so just then, and Clio Waring burst out laughing. 
 
 ^*Do they really say such dreadful things about him?" 
 she asked gaily. " The very worst thing / have ever heard 
 said is that he professes to be a 'painter of souls.'" 
 
 Diable I " The Doctor forgot the presence of a Prince 
 of the Church and of ladies who could not be supposed to 
 appreciate a swear word. **They have said that? But 
 who ? " Then, without waiting for a reply, he went on rapidly : 
 " Oh — I know, Carlo Lucci ? Cest Men lui^ ca I * A painter 
 of souls?' And whose souls? Lucci's? That would not 
 eat up much paint, that painting, for if he has one single one 
 it is the very most he can boast, and that single soul is not 
 very fat." 
 
 **But is it a reproach — the possession of a 'single soul'? 
 How many ought a person worthy of your approval to 
 possess?" The Cardinal's voice was soft and insinuating, 
 and for a moment Doyenbert hesitated. Then he slid on to 
 the arm of the Duca's chair and balanced himself skilfully. 
 
 *' I ought to demand pardon for that little gaffe^ your 
 Eminence ! Of course, the eccentric ideas of the Buddhists 
 have no place here^ but my unruly thoughts were making a 
 circuit, from Japan to Meudon, via Rome, and so the mention 
 of souls brought before me the quaint idea that the ' Five 
 Elements ' of the Chinese astrological system have much to 
 do with deciding the natures, or souls, of those born under 
 their influence. The gods permit an individual to have nine 
 souls, but the person so possessed would be too ' many- 
 12 
 
178 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 minded ' : and, on the other hand, the individual possessing 
 only a single soul would be said to lack quick intelligence. 
 You understand ? Lucci manipulates pastels so cleverly that 
 he makes more in twelve months than our budding genius 
 here is likely to make in twelve years, and yet — I suspect him 
 of a single soul. Did I ever tell you how I won his undying 
 hatred — over his famous * Sleeping Beauty'? No? Well, 
 the tale is instructive. Some fellows were telling him that it 
 had made the shade of Michael the Angel cover his face in 
 humihation and so on, and Lucci, with that delicious upward 
 glance which you ladies love so much, said it was *a little 
 nothing ' : that the only difficulty connected with it had been 
 the difficulty of keeping the model awake — after he had 
 discovered that she looked much prettier in pretended sleep 
 than in the real thing. He said he had placed a phonograph 
 close to her head — I believe the thing was giving * Vtens 
 Poupoule 'at the Ambassadeurs^ with Mayol, and that it had had 
 the desired effect. Most of the men seemed to find the idea 
 excellent, and we had a little round of stories about sleeping 
 beauties, real and otherwise, but somehow a craze to show 
 off my English overcame me, and I asked him if * Foxing ' 
 would not have been an excellent title for the picture. You 
 know Lucci — and his English ? He, I think, suspected me, 
 but it was necessary to say something, and he asked young 
 Tuke to explain. I used to think the boy was also one of 
 the single-souled of the earth, but after that explanation I 
 granted him all the souls the gods would permit ! It was 
 superb ! So painstaking, so laboured, and — so thorough ! 
 He is really an intelligent fellow, Tuke : there is a future 
 before him." Consciously or unconsciously he had addressed 
 the latter part of his little speech to Mrs Waring, directly, 
 and she felt intensely irritated. She caught a questioning 
 glance from Underwood, and the ever-ready colour flooded 
 her dainty cheeks. 
 
 I've no doubt, but Tm at a loss to understand why you 
 should all speak of Captain Tuke as *a boy '? It really seems 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 to me that he^s quite grown up. As to Carlo Lucci's ^Sleep- 
 ing Beauty' — it's a lovely thing and I'm afraid I shall never 
 be clever enough to understand why he should not have made 
 his model look as pretty as possible. It isn't everyone who 
 looks pretty — even presentable — when really asleep. Would 
 you have had him paint the girl with her mouth open — that's 
 a very common sleeping habit ? " 
 
 Dering made a httle movement to attract the Doctor's 
 attention. He was sincerely attached to Clio Waring and he 
 knew how merciless the critic could be. But Doyenbert 
 deliberately turned his back and refused to take the hint. 
 He was thoroughly enjoying himself. With an expression of 
 child-like innocence he smiled down into the indignant brown 
 eyes. 
 
 **So I have been told — and what a bad habit. A snare 
 and a temptation for unwary flies. And how very right you 
 are, Chere Madame. Make your model pretty and again 
 pretty and yet again — pretty. Nothing more is required. 
 And as to the title of a picture ? Did not your great Shake- 
 speare say — * what's in a name?' And I grant you that 
 ' Foxing ' was not a poetical suggestion, but we all have our 
 little weaknesses and mine, I admit it with bitter sorrow, is a 
 mania for accuracy ! " 
 
 Clio looked at him for a second or two. Then she said 
 impulsively : 
 
 " I don't think I should take you as an adviser if I wanted 
 to make a name — in this world." 
 
 There was a vibration in the musical voice that caught the 
 attention of more than one present and the old Cardinal 
 raised his hand in silent appeal. Doyenbert drew himself up 
 and his tall thin figure towered over his intrepid opponent. 
 For a moment or two he looked at her in contemplative 
 silence ; then he said quietly : 
 
 You are a very loyal friend, Mrs Waring, and such friend- 
 ship as yours is a valuable possession — for any man, but 
 believe me I am right when I say that a name built up on 
 
i8o A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 * Foxing ' is not worth having. It may command money — 
 that is true, but what is money in comparison with the fruit 
 of genius ? 
 
 There was something solemn in the usually raucous voice 
 and Clio felt suddenly frightened. She turned and looked at 
 Bering, who smiled as he passed his arm through that of the 
 Doctor and led him away. Underwood exchanged a few low 
 words with the Cardinal and then the three men took leave of 
 their hostess. 
 
 Mrs Waring was spending the evening at the Palazzo but 
 even if that had not been the case the American felt sure she 
 would not have given him an opportunity of speaking to her 
 alone. Since that afternoon on the terrace of San Pietro in 
 Montorio a gulf seemed to have opened between them and he 
 had not the courage to try to cross it. He had promised to 
 give her time in which to make a decision which must neces- 
 sarily colour the rest of their lives, and he was trying to keep 
 that promise — to the letter. When the visitors were gone 
 both the Cardinal and the Duca expressed their intention of 
 resting a short time before dinner and Clio found herself in 
 a big lounge chair, before a blazing wood fire, in Bianca's 
 dressing-room. The oval room was dainty, but rather ascetic, 
 with hangings of Indian silks in a delicate shade of blue, and 
 a few flowers springing from tall vases of green-blue Venetian 
 glass. The lamps were shaded in white and silver and on the 
 polished floor there were two or three white fur rugs. It gave 
 one the impression of a young girl's room, and as Bianca della 
 Rocca leaned forward to arrange the great blocks of sweet- 
 scented pine wood Clio could not help thinking that the 
 owner of the room did not seem to have changed, very greatly, 
 since the old days at the Convent school. The Duchessa 
 had retained much of the fresh manner of a perfectly 
 natural girl : she was the soul of goodness and her life was 
 centred in her home — and its occupants. Beautiful of face 
 and distinguished of person — she was entirely free from 
 vanity, and though she took delight in the unstinted admira- 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS i8i 
 
 tion of her husband and uncle she cared little, if anything, for 
 the applause of the outer world. 
 
 The two women were such close friends that they never 
 felt the necessity of making conversation, and when the 
 Duchessa spoke she broke quite a long silence. 
 
 **How wonderfully beautiful Gabrielle looked to-day?" 
 she said. " I really think she grows more and more lovely and 
 certainly she has been sweeter than ever this season. Of 
 course she has always been delightful to me but she is difficult, 
 sometimes — with other people ? 
 
 Clio half opened her dreamy eyes and nodded. 
 
 Sometimes You deserve a putty medal! When 
 have you known her anything but.* difficult ' ? I like her most 
 awfully, of course, but she exasperates me : I have never 
 been able to forgive her for the way she behaved to Miles 
 Dering — and it was / who introduced him, too." 
 
 " But surely she has made the amende honorable ? I 
 intended asking you how you had managed to make the peace 
 between them?'' 
 
 I ? But there is no peace. She was as nearly rude to 
 him as a well-bred woman could be, and certainly she has 
 made no amende honorable ^ 
 
 Bianca sat back and looked at her friend in open surprise. 
 But they are frequently together ? I myself have seen 
 them, at the Villa Borghese, and Monsignor Rossi told 
 Uncle Pio that she has been studying Raphael's Stanze under 
 his direction. I, of course, supposed you knew and I did not 
 mention the subject because Uncle Pio seemed to make a 
 little mystery about it. Oh — certainly Gabrielle and Mr 
 Dering are very good friends now." 
 
 CUo sat and stared. She was speechless with amazement. 
 Are you quite sure 1 " she said. 
 
 " Absolutely — absolutely sure. I myself was astonished 
 the day I saw them together at the Villa Borghese. They 
 did not see me, and uncle who was with me drew me 
 away, but they seemed the best of friends and were laugh- 
 
i82 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 ing and talking as if they had known each other all their 
 lives/^ 
 
 What a cat she is ! 
 
 There was so much disgust and indignation in the voice 
 that Bianca burst out laughing. 
 
 " But why ? She was not obliged to tell either of us that 
 she had made up her little misunderstanding with Mr Bering? 
 We are not girls now, you must remember. We can have 
 little secrets from each other without giving offence." 
 
 But not to tell me? And I have been at the Villa Bori- 
 zoff ever so often lately and I have seen Miles Bering every 
 second day. And then she knew I wanted her to be nice to 
 him!'^ 
 
 Well, I assure yoU; she is nice to him. I do not think 
 ever remember seeing Gabrielle so * nice ' — if by nice^you 
 mean friendly and familiar — to any other man." 
 But what can she mean by it ? " 
 The Buchessa leaned back in her chair and looked into the 
 fire. Mrs Waring looked at her impatiently and repeated the 
 question. 
 
 " I do not really know," the Buchessa's soft voice had in 
 it a note of hesitation. " Phase do not think that I speak with 
 anything like authority, but — I think, and I fancy one or two 
 other persons think the same, that perhaps Gabrielle is serious 
 — at last. It really looks a little like it." 
 
 Serious You mean that she may, possibly, be think- 
 ing of — marrying ? Miles Bering ? " 
 
 Bianca made a gesture of hesitating assent. 
 
 Of course it is only a bare possibility ; but Uncle Pio is 
 very observant and I am almost sure he thinks — something." 
 
 But you must all be insane. The bare idea of Miles 
 Bering * marrying money ' is supremely ridiculous and I don't 
 believe he'd ever fall in love with Gabrielle. She isn't a bit 
 the sort of person he'd admire — really. And besides I believe 
 he's in love with Violet Hilliard — that cousin of Madame de 
 Brissac's. That would be a wretched affair, if you like, but 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 183 
 
 all the same I believe he really likes her and I know his sister 
 is afraid of the same thing." 
 
 *'But I think Miss Hilliard is to marry Prince Platoff? 
 Paolo Prada spoke of it to FeHpe yesterday evening. He said 
 it was talked of at the Clubs." 
 
 Platoff? You must be insane! As if Madame de 
 Brissac would allow such a thing. And as if PlatoiT, after all 
 these years, would actually marry ? I don't believe a word of 
 it any more than I believe these absurd stories about Gabrielle. 
 Why, you know she has refused half the best men in Europe 
 — Princes and Grand Dukes and all that sort of thing. It's 
 as ridiculous to suppose that she'd consent to marry an 
 unknown painter as to suppose that he would ever ask her." 
 
 **Yes, I know she has refused a great many men, but I 
 cannot imagine that she, or any other woman, would regard 
 Mr Bering with condescension. And then — is he unknown ? 
 Here in Rome, in certain circles, it has been the fashion to 
 call him eccentric and a poseur^ but there is no better judge of 
 art in Europe than Doctor Doyenbert — and you know what 
 he thinks. And then Uncle Pio has said that the portrait of 
 the Holy Father will at once place him in a unique position. 
 Uncle says it is quite marvellous : he considers it the finest 
 modern picture he has seen and he is an excellent judge." 
 
 Clio assented absently. She was much too surprised and, 
 if the truth must be told, displeased to pay attention to the 
 painter's artistic prospects. She knew him well enough to 
 understand his silence if the Princess had elected to make a 
 secret of her acquaintance with him, but — why should she 
 wish for secrecy ? That was what puzzled the indignant little 
 widow. Gabrielle Borizoff who had always boasted of being 
 a law unto herself, who would certainly, without hesitation, 
 have invited a chimney-sweep to her villa if it had seemed 
 good to her to do so ? Gabrielle, who ruled her world and 
 who was utterly careless of what it might say. Why this 
 secrecy? There was quite a long silence and then Mrs 
 Waring said : 
 
i84 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 " If what you say is really the case I suppose Miles Bering 
 will be at Gabrielle's reception to-morrow night? One will 
 have an opportunity of watching from afar the progress of 
 this interesting — friendship." 
 
 " Oh, he is certain to be there but, Clio — I do implore of 
 you not to seem to see anything. Of course there may be 
 absolutely nothing in the idea I have suggested but if there 
 should be ? Just realize what it might mean ? And then we 
 all — you in particular — like Mr Bering so very much ? 
 
 " Yes, I hke him. I believe I like him too well to see 
 with you in this affair. Of course it would be a splendid thing 
 for him financially, but somehow I can^t see Miles Bering in 
 that light. I half wish I could. If one could pull him off 
 his pedestal things might be easier — for others besides himself. 
 His ideals and ideas are a nuisance. They crop up and 
 make one think at inconvenient moments, but — I can't picture 
 him without them and I don't think I want to." 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 " '\ZO\J are treating me unfairly." 
 X "I don^t understand you." 
 
 *' Oh, yes — you understand very well. You have avoided 
 me. You have deliberately shown me that you do not wish 
 to be alone with me for a single moment. Your manner to 
 me has changed completely.'' 
 
 " Fm sorry if I've seemed rude.'' 
 
 "It is not a question of rudeness, it is a question of 
 justice. I have not deserved this treatment." 
 
 It was the night of the reception given by Princess 
 Borizoff in honour of a cousin of the Czar, and James Under- 
 wood was standing with Mrs Waring in the circular domed 
 room which was dedicated to the frescoes of Melozzo da Forli 
 and to the Madonna of Cimabue. His face was stern and he 
 would have seemed forbidding if a vibrating note had not 
 forced its way into his voice. He had been very patient : he 
 was prepared to show still further patience, but it wounded 
 him deeply to find that the woman he loved distrusted him. 
 He seemed very btg and strong as he stood by her side and 
 looked down at her tell-tale face. Love had lent keenness of 
 vision to his eyes and he could almost read her thoughts. He 
 knew that she was no longer at ease in his society. 
 
 Clio was that night in a strangely unrestful mood : her 
 nerves seemed over-strained and her temper was uncertain. 
 She was looking specially attractive in a wonderful creation in 
 which sea-green gauzes and seed pearls and long crystal fringes 
 played important roles. Her hair was dressed low and the 
 loose waves were controlled by diamond combs of curious 
 design ; diamonds gleamed on the lobes of her small ears and 
 on the points of her silvered shoes, but her creamy throat and 
 
 185 
 
i86 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 rounded shoulders were quite bare. A big bunch of Czar 
 violets was thrust into a scarf of silver tissues which clung 
 about her waist, and in her right hand she carried a small gauze 
 fan thickly covered with emerald paillettes. She looked very 
 lovely and very young. Underwood sighed. 
 
 "I do not want to worry you," he went on, *^but I must 
 just say one thing and it is this, you can trust me. I have 
 said that the decision — you know what decision I mean — must 
 be made by you, and at your own chosen time, but I see no 
 reason why I should meantime be deprived of your com- 
 panionship. We can surely be good friends — always? No 
 matter what may happen ? " 
 
 Of course ! And I don't know what you mean ? I am 
 just the same as I always was.*' 
 
 He shook his head. Clio shrugged her white shoulders 
 impatiently. 
 
 "Oh, please don't be so serious. I am perfectly sick of 
 serious people. Life isn't worth living when everyone wants 
 you to have a mission or to wear a long face or to think twice 
 before you laugh once." 
 
 " A propos of what ? " 
 
 The tone was calmly inquiring but the smile wholly whim- 
 sical and the dimples peeped out on Clio's cheeks. 
 
 Oh — I don't know — lots of things. I believe the world, 
 our little world here, is becoming too Miles Deringish ! I 
 seem to hear an echo of his ideas on all sides ! " 
 
 " Yes. The fellow has an extraordinary way of influencing 
 people. Even here the echo of which you speak makes itself 
 heard. His * Russia ' has been placed in a position of great 
 honour ? " 
 
 "Yes! And the man who painted it too! He is far 
 more at home here than I am. It's a mercy that Gabrielle 
 has been obliged to devote herself to the Grand Duke, other- 
 wise she would certainly have kept our oppressively good 
 young man by her side all the evening." 
 
 " You speak bitterly ? " 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS i 
 
 " Not at all, but I do not like unnecessary mysteries 
 
 o 
 
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A PAINTER OF SOULS 187 
 
 " Not at all, but I do not like unnecessary mysteries. 
 If Gabrielle wanted to make a tame cat of him she was 
 free to do so — quite openly. Why should she have made all 
 this mystery ? If I had not chanced to hear of her intimacy 
 with him from Bianca della Rocca, yesterday afternoon, I 
 should have been struck dumb with amazement on seeing him 
 here to-night." 
 
 Underwood laughed. 
 
 " I cannot see Bering in the character of tame cat though 
 it is certain that he and the Princess are on the best of terms. 
 But then — why should you be offended about it ? I take it 
 that you have not always confided all your affairs to the 
 Princess? Have you not permitted yourself certain little 
 reservations ? 
 
 Of course — but that's quite a different matter.'' 
 
 " We are rather apt to see things like that, but I am afraid 
 that facts remain facts and it is undoubtedly true that * what's 
 sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander ' — too." 
 
 Kindly point out the * goose ' and the * gander ' in this 
 case? " 
 
 Before he could reply the Duchessa della Rocca entered the 
 room with Bering and a little group of four was quickly formed. 
 
 The Buchessa was looking very handsome and stately. 
 She was dressed in rich black satin and the make of the dress 
 was neither fashionable nor unfashionable — it was exceedingly 
 simple and picturesque. When looking at the tall, graceful 
 figure Clio Waring was suddenly reminded of the old 
 Cardinal's description of his niece — **she has many of the 
 qualities of a royal woman." The soft folds of the flowing 
 dress moulded the splendid form without undue display of 
 outline, and of trimming there was none. Some cob-web lace, 
 yellow with age, showed itself on the corsage, and a magni- 
 ficent Louis XV. bow of diamonds caught it down at the 
 breast : in the dark hair, simply dressed and lying close to the 
 finely-shaped head, there was a diamond tiara in a design of 
 interlaced myrtle branches. 
 
i88 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 As she entered the circular room the Duchessa was 
 laughing softly at something the painter had said and after 
 exchanging greetings with Mrs Waring she returned to the 
 subject. 
 
 " You will have to go ! There will be no chance of 
 escape." Dering laughed and nodded his head in mock 
 assent. Clio looked at him inquiringly. 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 " To Russia.'' 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 "To paint Grand Dukes and the families of Grand Dukes 
 — even unto the third and fourth generation.'^ 
 " Who has arranged this ? " 
 
 "Our very special Grand Duke who is at this moment 
 giving Lady Garston his opinion on the magnetic power of 
 her eyes, in the loggia ! '' 
 
 "And you are going? " 
 
 " Tr^s chlre Madame — did you not hear the decision of 
 the Duchessa?" 
 
 " You're coming on ! " 
 
 There was something so cheeky — no other word would 
 express it — about the tone in which Clio spoke that they all 
 laughed. She herself joined in for a second or two ; then she 
 moved to Dering's side and spoke to him, a little apart. 
 
 " Have you really come to see the error of your ways — at 
 last? Has Madame Borizoff been able to convince you that 
 Art for Art's sake is beautiful in theory and — in practice likely 
 to lead in the out-door-relief-needed direction ? " 
 
 " But why should you divorce Art for Art's sake from the 
 world of Grand Dukes ? " 
 
 I ? But / have never divorced such things or people at 
 all. It was you who have always insisted on doing that." 
 He shook his head solemnly. 
 
 " Never ! " 
 
 "But when I spoke to you about doing a portrait of 
 Gabrielle Borizoff ? " She stopped short and looked at him 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 189 
 
 sharply. But perhaps that has also been arranged — with all 
 these other wonderful things ? " 
 
 Again he shook his head and the expression of mock 
 solemnity gave place to an expression of whimsical amuse- 
 ment. 
 
 "No!" 
 
 The Duchessa moved across the room with Underwood 
 and Clio sank into a chair which had been placed under 
 the shadow of a superb palm. She motioned to Bering to 
 sit near her. 
 
 "Look here," she said determinedly, "IVe always liked 
 you and Tve always wanted things to march well for you. 
 You know that — don't you? Well, I don't mind saying 
 that lately I haven't understood you — a little bit. It isn't 
 like you to be deceitful and underhand." 
 
 " But have I been ? " 
 
 "Of course you have — and you know it." 
 
 " Please M'am — ^just as how ? " 
 
 Clio would not laugh. She drew herself up stiffly and 
 glanced round the room and towards the open doors which 
 led into the larger galleries. Bering's eyes followed. 
 
 " The Villa Borizoff ? " he said musingly. 
 
 "Just that ! And other things too." 
 
 "What other things?" 
 
 "Oh — your portrait of the Pope and your new ideas 
 on the subject of love and — lots of other things." Bering 
 laughed softly but with complete satisfaction. 
 
 "You are delicious! And the portrait of the second 
 sweetest old man in Rome is not finished ! And of course 
 you'll be invited to the * private view.' And who said I 
 had acquired 'new ideas' on the important subject? And, 
 by the way, aren't you ashamed of yourself about your 
 treatment of the small boy of the fatal arrows ? Poor Tuke, 
 he is inside there, wandering round and round and refusing 
 to be comforted." 
 
 "To turn the subject may be convenient but it's a banal 
 
igo A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 method. Of course I can't force your confidence — I wouldn't 
 if I could — but I assure you I have heard things." 
 
 "So have I." 
 
 Clio looked up quickly. 
 
 '^What?" 
 
 " Whispers of meetings which have been and are not. And 
 of possibilities which, unhappily, are not probabihties and 
 of hopes and fears, and — I wish I could help and I can't ! 
 When one likes a person — persons — very much, one wishes 
 so much to have the power to strew the path with roses 
 and the right to — throw slippers ; difficulties that seem 
 insurmountable are detestable." He spoke with meaning 
 and a faint flush rose to Clio's face. She looked down a 
 moment : then she threw back her head impatiently. 
 
 *'Just before you and Bianca came in I was saying to 
 Mr Underwood that I am sick to death of serious people — 
 and it's true. Life is too short for all this seriousness. 
 One must live for the day for no one can tell what the 
 morrow may bring." 
 
 She got up suddenly and with Bering at her side passed 
 out of the quiet galleries and on, into the brilliant reception- 
 rooms with the walls of gleaming gold and the gorgeous 
 ceilings of carved wood overlaid with gold and silver and 
 inset with tortoise-shell. 
 
 The Princess disliked the great rooms because of their 
 almost barbaric splendour but she used them when she 
 received : they were well arranged and spacious and at 
 the end of the suite there was a music-room which famous 
 artists had pronounced perfect. 
 
 In this room the subdued light of countless wax candles 
 shed a soft radiance on walls hung with rose-pink brocade 
 and panels of carved ebony. At one end there was an 
 Erard concert-grand and round the walls many low seats 
 of ebony and pale rose satin. Tall lilies, in high vases of 
 carved ivory, stood near the open fire-place, and on the 
 dark floor there were Eastern prayer-rugs of great value. 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 191 
 
 As Mrs Waring and Bering approached the music-room 
 someone played the opening notes of " Chopin's Troisieme 
 Ballade," and, with finger on lips, Clio noiselessly slipped 
 into a chair just inside the door. 
 
 The greatest pianist of modern days was playing at 
 the special request of the guest of the evening — the cousin 
 of the Czar. 
 
 As the delicious notes rose and fell under the magic 
 touch of the enchanter Clio leaned back against the satin 
 cushions of her chair and gave rein to her thoughts. 
 
 Here, in the midst of subtle luxury, where the desire 
 of the eye was elevated to a shrine, where the fragrance 
 of hot-house flowers robbed the senses of all power save 
 the power to enjoy, it was impossible to think of serious 
 things : even to remember that they existed. 
 
 Yes ! What she had just said to the man standing by 
 her side was true. The only sensible thing to do is to 
 live for the hour, for the day. Life is very short, a woman's 
 life. Very much has to be got into a pitifully short space 
 of time — if existence is to be made worth while. 
 
 She opened her eyes and looked round defiantly. She 
 was free. No one had the right, now, to dictate to her. 
 And the one who had had that right — the dear old father 
 who had died not long after her marriage — well, his views 
 were lovely but hopelessly out of date. He had lived out 
 of the world so long that he had forgotten its ways — and 
 needs. 
 
 Her face glowed with excitement and her restless eyes 
 were very brilliant as she let them wander over the occupants 
 of the famous music-room. 
 
 The scene was a remarkable one. 
 
 All the most notable members of that cosmopolitan 
 circle known as society " were gathered together at the 
 Villa Borizoff that night. Diplomatists, ministers, lovely 
 women of Russian, French, English and Italian birth : 
 semi-royal personages of both sexes. 
 
192 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 The toilettes were marvellous and the display of jewels 
 dazzling, but no woman present rivalled the mistress of the 
 house — who was sitting, with her royal guest, near the piano. 
 
 Clio knew her friend's face very well indeed. She had 
 often studied it and had, not infrequently, felt irritated 
 when she realized its exceeding beauty, but she had never 
 seen Gabrielle Borizoff look as she looked then. 
 
 There was something unexpected about her. Some 
 change of expression ? Or was it of manner ? 
 
 It was impossible to say in what the subtle change 
 consisted but it was present. 
 
 Clio's keen eyes wandered slowly over the marvels of 
 the clinging robe of creamy satin, laden with embroideries 
 of pale silver and mother-of-pearl. The folded laces on 
 the quaintly simple bodice showed yellow against the mat 
 whiteness of the flawless skin and great ropes of pearls fell 
 low over lace and satin. 
 
 No single touch of colour marred the purity of that 
 delicious melange of ivory and cream but amongst the 
 laces of the bodice there was a cluster of pure white roses 
 framed in dark leaves. 
 
 Gabrielle's eyes encountered those of her friend just 
 as the famous musician's fingers kissed the trembling notes 
 for the last time and she smiled. 
 
 Then, or so it seemed to Clio, the dark eyes wandered 
 upwards and remained stationary — for a single moment. 
 And in that moment the watching woman felt as if she 
 had seen the face of an angel. 
 
 The Grand Duke claimed the attention of his hostess 
 and at the same moment some one stood before Clio and 
 bowed low. 
 
 Enchante de vous voir, Madame! Is it permitted 
 to offer respectful felicitations ? Your wonderful robe 
 recalls the mysteries of fathomless seas ! It would be 
 impossible for a mermaid, however enchanting, to clothe 
 herself in a more ravishing harmony of green ! " 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 It was Prince Platofif. And at the sound of his soft, 
 insolent voice Mrs Waring glanced up at the painter. 
 
 Bering was leaning lazily against the wall close to 
 her chair and as she looked at him she saw his eyes 
 resting quietly on the face of the Russian. There was no 
 sign of recognition, on either side, but notwithstanding his 
 diplomatic training PlatofF showed that he was conscious 
 of the painter's calm inspection. 
 
 Mrs Waring made some careless remark about the 
 interest taken by the Grand Duke in the Chopin Ballade 
 and Platoff laughed softly. 
 
 " He is marvellous — our dear Puff-Puff ! He knows 
 nothing of music, cares nothing for it — unless the Valse 
 Lente of the Paris Cafes be permitted to come under that 
 heading — but he is an excellent actor. And then he is 
 quite sincerely interested in our mutual friend and hostess. 
 It is even rumoured in Petersburg, so I have been informed, 
 that for her sake he would be willing to desert, for a time 
 at least, the beloved puff-puff which always takes him in 
 the direction of Paris and — settle down ! You call it that, 
 fCest-ce-pas Madame ? * Settle down ! ' The expression is 
 so comfortable. So suggestive of the brooding hen." 
 
 Clio smiled vaguely and rose from her seat. For a 
 moment or two she stood and watched the gay crowd 
 streaming out of the music-room. Then she signed to 
 Dering that she wished to join some friends and, with a 
 careless salutation, left the Russian standing alone. He 
 looked after her with appraising eyes and as he noted 
 the slight, but quite un-English, movement of the hips, 
 as she walked, he recalled the fact that many of the southern 
 Irish have Spanish ancestors. 
 
 And then his thoughts passed on to the tall man at her 
 side. He hated Dering but he was not entirely unworthy 
 to carry the toga of Petronius Arbiter. He was a judge 
 of men — physically, just as he was a judge of women, and 
 if he had been in the humour for blunt truth-telling he 
 13 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 would unhesitatingly have declared that he himself and 
 the painter were the two most distinguished-looking men 
 at the Villa Borizoff that night. 
 
 It was an hour later. The cousin of the Czar, with 
 fervid expressions of regret and of anticipation, had made 
 his adieux, A number of the guests had passed on to 
 a ball at the Palazzo Barberini, but the bridge tables in 
 the card-room were still crowded : many of the younger 
 members of the party were sitting on the upper terrace. 
 
 Princess Borizoff, superlatively admirable as a hostess, 
 understood how to make her guests feel at home in her 
 house. She was with them when her presence was necessary 
 for their pleasure but she did not worry about them. Her 
 entertainments large and small were perfectly organized 
 and always successful. 
 
 She was feeling strangely exalted — had felt so all that 
 day. Why, she hardly knew, but it seemed to her that she 
 was experiencing the bien-etre of morphia worshippers. 
 Her world seemed bathed in golden light and she felt 
 herself drifting on and on, with no other rudder than 
 instinct. She had experienced many emotions, had ridiculed 
 the emotions of others, but — this sensation of drifting towards 
 some object, desirable above all other things? This emotion 
 that made her tremble, at times : that made her pulses 
 throb : that made her cheeks flush as those of a girl ? What 
 was it? Was it possible that it could be Love? 
 
 She was a woman who liked to analyse sensations — even 
 her own, and there had been moments in the past weeks 
 when she had questioned herself, half seriously : when she 
 had mocked at her own feelings. She had realized, almost 
 from the first, that Miles Bering's society was very agreeable 
 to her : that in his presence she felt stimulated and fully 
 awake to the possibilities of life. She did not hide from 
 herself the fact that she had taken pains to attract him : 
 that she had taken infinite trouble to bring about constant 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 195 
 
 meetings which had the appearance of being unexpected. 
 For the sake of being with him she had brushed aside 
 the imperious indifference with which she habitually treated 
 her fellows; she had, for once, permitted herself to be 
 a woman impelled by emotion. 
 
 She had never been denied anything. She had had 
 but to wish and — to obtain. And now? She wished for 
 the constant society of a man, but the realization of that 
 wish might cost her very much? 
 
 It might cost her her liberty for she knew — her in- 
 telligence was too alert to permit of mistake — that it would 
 not be possible for any woman to dominate the painter. 
 
 And was she prepared to pay the price ? 
 
 Many times that day she had asked herself the question 
 and each time she had evaded the answer. 
 
 Then, in the reckless spirit of ancestors who had, 
 very many of them, been notable gamblers, she determined 
 to leave it to chance ! 
 
 And at midnight on the evening of her reception she 
 was standing with Miles Bering in the loggia which was 
 her favourite sanctum. 
 
 The moon was shining softly. A heavy mist hung 
 over the great city like a menacing cloud and the still air 
 was impregnated with the perfume of flowers. 
 
 The loggia, with its floor of pink marble and its three 
 walls — one end was open — of purest white, looked supremely 
 attractive. 
 
 Climbing roses twined themselves about the carved 
 pillars and the pale gold of shaded lamps touched into 
 life the rippling waters of the fountains at the further end. 
 Giant palms stood here and there in square pots of white 
 porcelain. Directly in front of the open-air salon there 
 was a small terrace and from this terrace a flight of white 
 marble steps led down into the rose garden. 
 
 They had been talking of the happenings of the evening : 
 of the Grand Duke's enthusiastic appreciation of the painter's 
 
196 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 Russia," of the Duchessa della Rocca's beauty and charm, 
 and — this more particularly — of Clio Waring and Mr 
 Underwood. 
 
 Bering spoke with considerable reserve but the Princess 
 did not hesitate to express regret that anything should 
 interfere with the happiness of her friend. 
 
 Of course there would be great difficulties," she said. 
 " The Church will not accept divorce, but it really does seem a 
 pity. Certain she likes him very much." She stopped short 
 and let her dark eyes wander out over the roses on the 
 terrace. It t's a pity that there should so often be that 
 tiresome crumpled leaf to upset things. It seems pre- 
 ordained. * Then I saw that the rose was fair, and the 
 mystical rose afar : A glimmering shadow of light, paled to 
 a star in the night : And the angel whispered ^' Beware ! " 
 Love is a wandering star.' " 
 
 Bering looked at her in surprise. 
 How does it happen that you know Arthur Symons so 
 well ? You seem to read everything ! '' 
 
 Oh — I do not know him well at all but I Hke very much 
 his little volume entitled Lyrics — the little book with Paul 
 Verlaine's * Fountain Court ' on the front page." Again she 
 paused and, leaning lightly against one of the massive marble 
 columns, she looked up at him musingly. **I wonder if Love 
 really is *a wandering star' ? Something very beautiful and 
 aloof and — uncertain ? " 
 
 He smiled. 
 
 " I'm sure it's nothing of the kind." 
 
 *'You are convinced that it is a fixed star? Always to be 
 found in the same place — year in and year out?" 
 Absolutely convinced." 
 
 She looked at him — this time very seiiously. 
 
 "Bo you know, I think there is something terrible about 
 your ideas — some of them. You seem to leave no margin for 
 small weaknesses of the flesh, and — after all, we cannot hope 
 to be perfect, we poor victims of modern civilization ? It 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 197 
 
 seems to me that you have all the primeval instincts. You do 
 not recognize the necessity for compromise ? 
 
 " I don't think I quite follow you. You asked if I 
 thought Love was something ^ aloof and uncertain' and I 
 answered no. Is that what you call * primeval ' ? " 
 
 Not exactly. It is difficult to explain just what I mean, 
 but I cannot believe that Love is quite so simple and easily 
 understood as you seem to imagine.'' 
 
 The painter laughed softly. 
 
 ''^I think it's just as simple and easily understood as — 
 Nature ! And just as complex and involved and difficult to 
 grasp as — Nature ! Because Love is Nature — the heart of 
 Nature. You don't understand me, and I don't understand 
 you, because we don't give the same meanings to the same 
 words. You are accustomed to hearing all sorts of things 
 designated * love ' : that which we want, that which excites 
 us, that which irritates us, that which eludes us, that which 
 dominates us, and so on and so on. The moment a man or 
 a woman is interested in anyone he, or she — nine times in ten 
 — imagines he, or she, is * in love ' ! Now there's no more 
 absurd phrase in the whole English language than that ' in 
 love.' You love — or you do not love." 
 
 " You think that ' love is the heart of Nature ' ? " 
 
 She spoke dreamily as if her thoughts were far away, but 
 a subtle vibration in the musical voice made Bering look at 
 her sharply. 
 
 He was a man of keen intuition and many times, since he 
 had come to know her well, she had puzzled him. He was of 
 all men the least vain but he was beginning to ask himself the 
 meaning of these discussions on the subject of the little 
 winged god. 
 
 It was certain that she must have some reason for so 
 frequently leading the conversation into this path and what 
 was that reason ? 
 
 On the other hand the Princess stood apart. She was an 
 imperious coquette in the sense that she had broken many 
 
198 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 hearts, but it was impossible to think of her in connection 
 with an ordinary flirtation. With him she had been frank 
 and open as a man friend might have been, but the fact 
 remained that there was something in her manner, perhaps in 
 her voice, that sometimes made him uneasy. 
 
 " You speak of Nature as you might speak of a god, but I 
 wonder if you realize that it does not speak to any two of us 
 in the same voice ? What might seem natural to me might — 
 probably would — seem highly unnatural to you ! I wish — 1 
 wish it very much that I could really understand you ? 
 
 " You are thinking of some special point on which you 
 imagine we should fail to agree — isn't that so ? 
 
 She smiled mysteriously and looked down at the roses at 
 her breast. 
 
 Perhaps.^' 
 
 Again he looked at her closely. Something seemed to 
 whisper that there was danger ahead. He felt tempted to 
 make a laughing remark that would lead the conversation into 
 ordinary channels but then the absurdity of his vague fears 
 struck him and he felt disgusted to realize that he was 
 assuming the role of a professional charmer of women. 
 
 With some warmth he said : 
 
 " Will you not explain ? I should very much like to learn 
 the nature of that special point ? " 
 "Yes?" 
 
 She raised her dark eyes for a moment. There was in 
 her face something of hesitation — of exaltation. 
 
 There was silence. Then she went on, speaking softly 
 and as if, almost, to herself. 
 
 **You are very big and strong. Your ideas are strong, 
 and your instincts are, I think — primeval. You hold firmly 
 the view that action is for men and patient submission for 
 women ! Perhaps you are right. I think you are right in 
 theory, but — sometimes in practice — it is difficult. There 
 are exceptional cases. If you really believe that love is the 
 heart of Nature, you might, perhaps, find it possible to 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 understand Nature revealed to you in an unexpected light ? 
 You are so certain that the man should be the leader always, 
 that I think — I feel almost sure, you do not realize that there 
 may be moments in which a woman might have to assert 
 herself — or take the chance of losing something she valued — 
 perhaps very much. Yes," — she answered an unconscious 
 movement rather than a spoken word — " I am thinking of a 
 special woman and a special man. The woman is rich in 
 things the world considers of value, and there are reasons 
 which might make the man hesitate to speak. And so — the 
 woman thinks she has the right to lead — a few steps." 
 
 She looked like a beautiful statue, with the white light of 
 a southern moon streaming down on her marvellous skin and 
 gleaming satins. Her face was turned away and she was 
 looking out into the mysterious shadows of midnight. 
 
 Bering held his breath. Her meaning was unmistakable. 
 
 If she had been an ordinary woman it would have been 
 easy to turn aside the subject. It would have been easy to 
 feign blindness. 
 
 But she was not ordinary. 
 
 For an instant he remained silent. Then he said, very 
 quietly : 
 
 '*I quite agree with you. There are exceptional cases, 
 and Love — real Love, has the right to make laws for itself. 
 But I cannot help feeling that it would be a cruel thing for a 
 woman to have to speak — as you suggest. I suppose my 
 instincts really are * primeval ' ! And then my own love 
 story is arranging itself so naturally that I cannot, perhaps, 
 realize the difficulties that might present themselves to others.'' 
 
 "Your own — love story?'' 
 
 There was amazement in the tone and something of 
 imperious indignation. 
 
 Yes, I love Miss Hilliard. I hope one day to make her 
 my wife," 
 
 He glanced at her quite naturally, but his eyes quickly 
 returned to the garden. 
 
200 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 "You love her — that girl who is here with Madame de 
 Brissac ? " 
 
 "More than my life." The words were spoken warmly, 
 for a flame of indignation was set alight in his heart by her 
 obviously slighting tone. 
 
 Again there was a moment of silence. She looked at him 
 intently. Her face had grown very white. 
 
 "You were thinking of her the other day — when we spoke 
 of your passion for white roses? When you said they 
 reminded you of some one you loved? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 The Princess laughed. 
 
 And as he heard the mocking sound Bering felt his 
 colour rising. He knew the point of the mockery was turned 
 inward. 
 
 He felt strangely ill at ease. To cover his confusion, he 
 leaned forward and looked into the shadows of the rose 
 garden. 
 
 " 1 think I see Mrs Waring and Underwood — down 
 below. Shall I go and tell them you are here ? " 
 
 "Yes — go. Tell them what you please, but I shall not 
 be here when they come up." 
 
 He bowed and turned quickly away. 
 
 Then she spoke his name. 
 
 She was standing erect, with her beautiful head thrown 
 back. The training of a lifetime had asserted itself. She 
 was quite calm. 
 
 With an imperious gesture she drew the crushed roses 
 from her laces and held them towards him. 
 
 "Please bury these petals — with all the others." 
 
 He came towards her — about to speak, but she waved 
 him back. A moment later she had passed out of the 
 loggia by the door which communicated with her private 
 salon. 
 
 The great white moon was growing pale and languid. 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 201 
 
 The flash of stars, jewels of unimagined price, was becoming 
 each moment fainter and still more faint. 
 
 Silence, sombre, yet mysteriously restless, imprisoned the 
 City of the Caesars, but the birds were already beginning to 
 whisper to each other from tree to tree — by the lake and 
 on the broad terraces. All the world seemed at rest but 
 Princess Borizoflf, in the little salon which communicated 
 with her bedroom, was writing a letter to an old friend. To 
 a man who had loved her from the first moment his dreamy 
 eyes had rested on her face at a ball, in the Imperial Palace 
 of St Petersburg. 
 
 She had no thought of sleep. She was a prey to conflict- 
 ing emotions. 
 
 In the luxurious room — faintly pink and grey and 
 silver as earliest dawn — the windows were wide open but 
 the air was warm, and sweet with the fragrance of white 
 jasmine. On the writing-table of ebony inset with ivory there 
 was a quaintly fashioned vase holding some stalks of tuberose ; 
 a priceless old vase that carried the cobalt enamel over-glaze 
 of Kakiyemon on its creamy surface. Close by, almost under 
 the shadow of the tuberose, stood the little carved wood 
 figure of the dancing girl, and very often, as she wrote, the 
 Princess looked at the tiny wonderful face and let her 
 thoughts wander to the lonely cottage in the mountains, in 
 the blackness of pine shadows where Love had been enshrined. 
 
 She was wrapped in a peignoir of snowy satin and white 
 fox furs, and in the voluminous, shimmering folds her stately 
 figure was blotted out and only the exquisite face remained. 
 The wrap was picturesque of design and there was a large 
 hood which she drew over her head as she wrote — **I am 
 imagining myself a sweet, devout Basque peasant woman, 
 going to confession, with a capuchon drawn close over my 
 head. I understand now what they mean when they say that 
 for so solemn a ceremony it is * discreet.' And I also am 
 making a confession — in the certainty of receiving sympathy 
 and understanding. I am going to burden you with my 
 
202 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 troubles because you love me and because your love will 
 make you suffer with me. That is life — tres cher ami — our 
 life, we poor selfish worldlings. We pretend to despise love 
 but when it is given to us we burden it, without remorse. 
 And my confession — which I am making in fulfilment of a 
 promise — you remember ? You remember that evening when 
 we talked of love, when you said that I did not understand it 
 — probably never should understand ? When you asked me to 
 promise to tell you, immediately, if Love ever discovered the 
 gate of my heart ? And so I confess — yes. At least I think 
 it must be — yes. And yet I am not quite sure — for I am 
 bewildered. A few hours ago I should have said * yes ' freely, 
 but now — I must reflect. Did I love an Ideal or do I love a 
 real man ? And is it really the love of the poets or — ^just the 
 momentary fancy of a woman who glories in a fresh sensation ? 
 Truly Boris — I hardly know but I think it is the love that 
 does not quickly die. You will guess the name of the man. 
 I have written to you of him more than once and in suflSci- 
 ently glowing terms. And he is charming and delightful, he 
 must always remain that — but I am disappointed — bitterly, 
 most cruelly. That he should not love me is conceivable — you 
 see I am not, after all, such a very vain woman. But that he 
 should love — Violet Hilliard? It is absolutely inexplicable. 
 Beautiful — that she is most certainly, and beautiful of figure 
 as of face, but such a dreadful type and mixed up with 
 impossible people. Already she has been made the centre of a 
 scandal by Ivan Apraxine — can you imagine a jeune fille du 
 monde being permitted to go about alone with him ? And 
 then it is rumoured that her father is arranging a marriage for 
 her with Serge Platoff. And Madame de Brissac is her 
 chaperon. Is it not horrible ? And Miles Bering is of the 
 world — he must know. And yet he wants to marry her ! Do 
 you wonder that I am bewildered ? He is so wonderful in 
 many ways — his thoughts, his ideas stimulate one like sparkling 
 wine — they seem to open up the way to great achievements. 
 And yet it is with him, as with all other men, simply the 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 desire of the eye and the fascination of the footlights; for her 
 beauty, though undeniable, is the beauty of the stage, just as 
 her manners, like those of her chaperon, are those of the 
 Parisian actress. And yet he loves her ! It was impossible 
 to mistake the look in his eyes when he said, an hour or two 
 ago, * More than my life,' in answer to my question, * You 
 love her?' I would have given him everything — I wished to 
 do it. He has influenced me as no other man has ever done, 
 and — his influence was welcome. With him I really believe I 
 might have become, what you have called, * a comrade of 
 Love.' I had made it easy for him to speak, more than once, 
 but to-night I determined to know the truth. And I do 
 know it — now ! He was wilfully blind — he could never in any 
 circumstances be less than a perfect gentleman — but he did not 
 leave me in doubt. And I am wounded by the thought that I 
 have been deceived — have perhaps deceived myself : that he is 
 made of ordinary clay after all, like other men. More agree- 
 able, far more gifted but still — ordinary clay. And there the 
 problem rests. I have been mistaken in him, or — I am 
 mistaken in my estimate of Miss Hiliiard ; and that cannot 
 be. She is impossible in every way and she does not love 
 him. You will tell me — I am sure of it — that I ought not to 
 judge by appearances. You are a believer in the existence, 
 in everyone, of those splendid qualities which so largely 
 compose your own personality ! You hold that we have but 
 to exercise patience — to take trouble to seek beneath the 
 surface, and that these beautiful qualities will unveil them- 
 selves. It is the belief of a poet — of a true lover of humanity, 
 but, cher ami^ is it not a chimera ? There are those — and I 
 know you to be one of them — who imagine that pure and 
 lovely qualities can be awakened, if not actually created, by a 
 profound belief in their existence, but I fear that it would be 
 beyond your strength, as I am sure it will be beyond his^ to 
 awaken pure and unworldly thoughts in the soul of Violet 
 Hiliiard. Deny it as we please, atavism is virile. And this 
 girl's father is notorious. A gambler who always wins : 
 
204 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 a man whose friendship is more to be dreaded than his 
 enmity. 
 
 You will think me bitter, perhaps you will think that I 
 have descended to the level of jealousy ? And in a sense that 
 is true ; I am jealous — not of a woman, but for the reputation 
 of a man. I cannot bear to think that he is less noble than 
 I believed him to be ; less fine in character ; less discerning. 
 Hero worship is foreign to my character and because of that 
 it hurts me to have to suspect that his feet are made of clay 
 — after all. 
 
 "And so my confession is made — my promise fulfilled. 
 This letter will not surprise you for I am sure you have read 
 between the lines I sent you ten days ago. You remember 
 the old saying, * tout le monde est bete U7ie fois ' ? How very 
 true it is ? Almost quite true, I think. — Gabrielle." 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 IN the days following the reception at the Villa Borizoff 
 Miles Bering found himself more than ever surrounded 
 by an atmosphere of unrest. His thoughts, winged messengers, 
 of tireless activity, were constantly wending their way towards 
 Florence, nevertheless they found time to flutter round the 
 famous marble loggia: the chosen sanctum of a woman who 
 had seemed to unveil her heart in the silence and mystery of 
 a moonlit night. 
 
 There were moments when he almost believed the drawing 
 aside of the veil had been real. That the Princess really 
 cared for him. And then again he remembered her caprici- 
 ous, imperious, character and he smiled at his ow^n vanity. 
 It was certain that, for some reason, she had wished to draw 
 very near to him, but what was that reason ? Was it composed 
 of curiosity ? Or mere caprice ? Or had the flames of vertige 
 scorched her — for a single moment? 
 
 He was puzzled and at the same time elated : he did not 
 believe she really loved him but he knew she had trusted him 
 — absolutely. She had recognized in him the "primeval'' 
 qualities which make betrayal of a confidence the unforgiv- 
 able sin. 
 
 His vanity — of which, after all, he had his share — had 
 been flattered, but it was not at the bidding of flattered vanity 
 that his thoughts wandered back, again and again, to the green 
 and white salon where he had spent many pleasant hours. 
 He really liked the Princess and to a surprising extent he 
 understood her. 
 
 On the afternoon following the reception he had received 
 a note from her. A few lines written on the ivory paper 
 stamped with silver with which he had become familiar. She 
 
 205 
 
206 
 
 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 had merely said au revoir^^^ adding that she was going to 
 spend a few days with friends at Frascati. She had signed 
 herself, always your sincere friend, Gabrielle Borizoff." 
 
 He found hinaself hoping that the Httle scene in the loggia 
 might not interfere with their delightful friendship, but some- 
 thing whispered that things could never again be just as they 
 had been. He felt sorry but the resentment roused by the 
 slighting tone in which the words, " you love her — that girl 
 who is here with Madame de Brissac,'' had been spoken, was 
 still present. He was exaggeratedly loyal to the girl he 
 loved. 
 
 He thought of her^ and of the precious little message she 
 had sent him in the velvet heart of a red rose, when he buried 
 the crushed petals of the white roses, with the others," as 
 the Princess had commanded. 
 
 And his pulses throbbed with triumph, for things were 
 going well with him. So well that even she^ with all her 
 delicious pretence of worldliness, would have reason to be 
 satisfied. 
 
 His portrait of the Pope was finished. It had been pro- 
 nounced an unqualified success by influential personages in 
 the Vatican circles and Cardinal Santanini was delighted. 
 
 Better still — so much better that nothing else connected 
 with the picture seemed important — he realized that he had 
 suddenly, almost unconsciously, found the shining path which 
 led to success. For years he had been groping in the dark 
 and in the twilight. He had known that somewhere there was 
 Light but the path to it had been difficult to find and he had lost 
 his way many times. Encouraging words had not been want- 
 ing but they had not been really helpful, even those which 
 came for Dr Doyenbert, severest of critics. It had been 
 necessary for him to find the path unaided, and he had found 
 it while painting the portrait of the gentle old man, with the 
 kindly eyes, who was Sovereign of the Vatican 
 
 The moment of the " private view — of which Daring had 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 207 
 
 laughingly spoken to Mrs Waring — had arrived and he was 
 in the big studio awaiting the arrival of a few intimate 
 friends. 
 
 He was standing by a window, looking out on the little 
 garden, when Clio Waring was announced, and as she entered 
 the room, closely followed by Underwood, the painter could 
 not help glancing from one face to the other with some 
 curiosity. 
 
 They had apparently made up their little difference of 
 opinion : they were again frequently together, but now, Bering 
 had not failed to note this, they were more often than not 
 members of a party : it was a rare thing to find them together 
 alone. 
 
 And an observant eye could not fail to recognize the 
 change in the pretty widow's manner, even in her appearance. 
 She was gay but in her gaiety there was a touch of cynicism 
 and something of defiance : she was brilliant and amusing 
 but she had lost something of the fresh, almost girlish, charm 
 of manner which had made her a thing apart. There were 
 moments when she made little cutting remarks, even about 
 her intimate friends. 
 
 She was lovely as ever and most fascinating but she 
 was changed. And no one recognized the change more 
 clearly than did the big American who had for so long been 
 her shadow. 
 
 By placing a determined restraint on his feelings he had 
 bridged over the gulf of uneasiness that had yawned between 
 them. Never once since that night at the Villa Borizoff had 
 he alluded to the momentous interview on the terrace of San 
 Pietro in Montorio. On the day following the reception he 
 had called on Clio and asked her to take a drive, and his 
 manner had been so calmly friendly that she could find no 
 reason for a refusal. 
 
 She was looking distractingly pretty on the afternoon of 
 the " private view " in a rather wonderful costume of dark 
 blue cloth elaborately braided in black silk and trimmed, very 
 
2o8 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 discreetly, with bands of sable. On her head she wore a 
 picturesque turban of dark blue velvet and at her breast — she 
 was a woman who could not do without flowers — a cluster of 
 Malmaison carnations. She was in brilliant spirits and 
 immediately attacked the painter about Princess Borizoff. 
 
 Where is she ? she cried. " And what is she up to ? 
 I'm certain you know, for it suddenly became evident to me, 
 the other evening, that you and Gabrielle have become 
 violent friends. She sent me a note saying 'shall not see 
 you for a few days ' and then she disappeared ! Where is 
 she ? And what's the meaning of it ? " Bering raised his 
 eyebrows. 
 
 " I am reminded of a famous telegram which was once 
 sent off by the great white man of South Africa to a friend. 
 It simply gave a chapter and verse in the Bible ! You are a 
 little over-excited : just to calm your nerves I refer you to 
 Genesis iv. 9." 
 
 **What on earth do you mean?'' 
 Just what I say." 
 But I don't understand ? " 
 
 " Tres chere Madame — is it possible that you have never 
 received any religious instruction? " 
 
 Underwood came to the rescue. 
 I am not very sure but I fancy this mysterious young man 
 must be alluding to the famous question — * Am I my 
 brother's keeper'?" Bering nodded. He was looking 
 steadily at Mrs Waring's indignant face. That lady delivered 
 herself of a sound which in an ordinary individual might 
 have been described as a sniff. 
 
 "What utter nonsense — and you mugged it up! I'm 
 certain you did. You guessed I'd ask you about Gabrielle 
 and you had your answer ready, on the tip of your tongue. 
 You're one of the wonders of the earth, of course, but I don't 
 believe you're clever enough to think of that without pre- 
 paration." 
 
 Bering laughed delightedly. Clio Waring was one of his 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 209 
 
 special favourites and he loved to tease her. She turned her 
 back on him and, drawing off her gloves, looked round for 
 the portrait. It was nowhere to be seen, but her eyes were 
 attracted by a large flat box, open and veiled in silver paper, 
 standing on one of the tables. 
 
 " Something new ? " she said, approaching it. Anything 
 one may see ? " 
 
 She was accustomed to examining Bering's treasures and 
 her keen intelligence told her that something of beauty and 
 value lay within the uncommon-looking box. Bering made 
 a gesture of assent. 
 
 *' Yes, I put it there for you to see. It's a present from 
 my friend Takeda — it arrived this morning." 
 
 He pushed aside the soft papers and drew out one of the 
 most marvellous kimonos Clio had ever seen. Soft satin of 
 pale ivory, with embroidered cherry blossoms staining its 
 pallor and a flight of storks crossing its straight fronts. The 
 lining, of silk supple as crepe^ was faintly blue as the egg of a 
 hedge-sparrow. It was a marvel of dainty loveliness and 
 Clio's eyes expressed keen appreciation. 
 
 " It's exquisite — quite wonderful," she said, " but is it a 
 present iox you ? Are you thinking of wearing it ? " 
 
 Both men laughed as the painter held the dainty garment 
 against his tall figure. 
 
 Not exactly ! It's for my wife.'' 
 
 Clio stared at him. 
 
 " But you haven't got one ? " 
 No ! But I shall have." 
 
 She gasped. 
 It's settled — I mean — have you — ? " 
 
 " Made up my mind ? Yes ! " 
 
 *' But there are other minds ? I mean to say that even 
 you, with all your outrageous determination, can't make up 
 other people's minds ? Even you have got to ask a question 
 and — wait for an answer ? " 
 Naturally ! " 
 14 
 
210 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 But— have you ? 
 
 He laughed. " No. But I shall." 
 But — ? I never heard of such a thifig ! People are 
 sending you wedding presents and you haven't even — ? " 
 
 ^* Asked that important question ? That's so, but then — 
 you must remember that it takes some time for a parcel to 
 find its way from Japan to Rome and it's always best to be 
 on the safe side." 
 
 " Well — really, you are the most impossible man I ever 
 heard of. It would serve you right if — sAe said * no ' when 
 you do ask." 
 
 Bering was still laughing when the door opened and the 
 Duchessa della Rocca entered with the Cardinal : immedi- 
 ately behind them came Dr Doyenbert. 
 
 The painter greeted the Duchessa warmly and apologized 
 for the absence of his sister, who was laid up with a severe 
 cold. He was in high spirits and insisted that they should be 
 fortified with tea before inspecting the picture. 
 
 " Chu has made it extra strong," he said. " I felt con- 
 vinced you would need to be strengthened. I know of 
 nothing more exhausting than the calling up of polite speeches 
 when polite speeches are looked for." 
 
 Clio Waring was, for a moment, alone with Underwood. 
 She looked at him wonderingly. 
 
 **What does it mean?" she said in a low tone. " Is it 
 Gabrielle ? And can it be settled ? " 
 
 Underwood shook his head. 
 He was only teasing you. He wouldn't have spoken so 
 lightly if he had really meant anything." 
 
 I'm not so sure ! I thought it was that girl, you know 
 whom I mean, but now I really do think it's Gabrielle. I 
 saw her looking at him the other night and — one can always 
 tell." 
 
 He looked down into the lovely flushed face. 
 "I suppose so," he said quietly. **When one feels very 
 strongly about anything it is hard to control one's eyes." 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 211 
 
 For a moment Clio was disconcerted. Something in the 
 grave voice, and something in her own heart, made her feel 
 inclined to cry. She bit her lip and, resolutely turning away, 
 crossed the room. 
 
 The old Cardinal was sipping his tea with evident enjoy- 
 ment. His fondest hopes had been realized in the portrait of 
 his revered friend, the Holy Father, and he hugged to himself 
 the knowledge that he understood the real meaning of the 
 picture better than Dr Doyenbert ! The Cardinal was very 
 human in some respects, if in many others he was more saintly 
 than the greatest of the Saints. And he dearly loved a harm- 
 less joke. 
 
 As he sat back in his roomy chair his beautiful old face 
 seemed carved in ivory and the little Japanese boy, Chu, 
 regarded him in breathless admiration. He had been speaking 
 of a painter, just dead, who had devoted his immense talent 
 to depicting scenes in life which seemed divorced from hope, 
 The Cardinal had keenly appreciated the famous man's 
 ability but he had intensely disliked his insistent pessimism. 
 
 "The philosophy of pessimism cannot last," he was saying. 
 Though in the present day our leading men deal largely 
 with it. On all sides we hear that life is sad and humanity 
 ugly and unattractive. ^ La vie est triste et Phomme est laid ' 
 is the parrot-cry of the age : and it is untrue. Diseased 
 minds may see life in this light, diseased creatures, who are 
 true degenerates, but in reality life remains pure and beautiful 
 — as it always has been. And, most happily, this dreadful 
 philosophy of pessimism cannot live. It has been sown 
 broadcast by some of our famous men, but when the harvest 
 comes those seeds will be found unfruitful. Take, for example, 
 the case of Balzac ? His work must live, for a long time, 
 because of its extraordinary force and because of his amazing 
 powers of observation, but I believe that his influence will 
 decrease rather than increase as time rolls on. His art must 
 live but his philosophy must surely die. The spirit of pes- 
 simism will slowly cease to have force and it would be impos- 
 
212 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 sible for a masterpiece, even from the pen of Balzac, to remain 
 a great power after its inner meaning had ceased to exist." 
 Doyenbert shrugged his shoulders impatiently but Bering 
 broke in. 
 
 "Yes — I am of the same opinion as your Eminence. I 
 believe with Guizot that *// fCy a que les optimistes qui fas sent 
 quelque chose en ce mo7tde.^ " 
 
 " You really believe that rubbish ? 
 
 Doyenbert spoke almost roughly. 
 Of course — and so do you ! You are one of the most 
 determined optimists I have ever met. What about your 
 belief in my small powers ? And in Uncle Jack's ideals and 
 in the ^ coming all right ' of things generally ? " 
 
 "If I ever said I believed in the * coming all right' of 
 things I deserve to have my tongue scored with a hot iron for 
 certainly I don't believe in anything of the kind. Things 
 rarely come right in this world, and when they do it is because 
 they have been forced into unnatural grooves by people who 
 realized that the natural course of * things,' as of men, and — 
 if there were no ladies present I might add — women, is a 
 crooked one. If you want straight lines, or straight thoughts, 
 or even moderately straight actions, you must guide them, 
 with a knout in one hand. It is natural and right that your 
 Eminence should believe in goodness and inborn beauty, but 
 outside the Church, right out in the world, believe me your 
 fine optimist gets left behind. He hasn't a chance against the 
 determined pessimist who trusts no one, believes in no one — 
 but himself ; who doesn't suffer when he is deceived for the 
 excellent reason that he never expected anything else." 
 
 There was an under-current of bitterness in the tone and 
 the Cardinal raised his white brows. He glanced softly at his 
 niece and her beautiful eyes gave him a silent answer. Mrs 
 Waring and Underwood looked uncomfortable but Der ng 
 was quite unconcerned. He patted the doctor's shoulder 
 soothingly as he said : 
 
 " I warned you against those elaborate dinners, dear to 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 213 
 
 the hearts of some of our Anglo-Saxon friends here. Cer- 
 tainly you're suffering from a violent indigestion ! Nothing 
 short of that could have the power to make you so 
 snappy — and with the poor optimists, of whom I am chief. 
 Plenty of hot water — slowly sipped and often, that's the thing 
 for you. Give it a chance, and by this time to-morrow you'll 
 find yourself another man." 
 
 Doyenbert shook ofi' the mocking hand ; his fiery temper 
 had broken bounds. 
 
 *'It would take a great many glasses of hot water to make 
 me see that you are anything but a wilfully blind fool, young 
 man. You — and all your fellow optimists." The second 
 sentence was obviously introduced as a concession to the look 
 of alarm and reproach on Clio Waring's face. " I tell you I 
 find unbearable those persons who have such a belief in the 
 natural perfections of their fellows that when things go wrong, 
 when disillusion arrives, the world comes to an end — for them. 
 They are broken-hearted and wretched — simply because they 
 had insisted on attributing fine qualities to people who never 
 possessed them — or wanted to possess them." 
 
 You are thinking of some special fool of an optimist?" 
 I am thinking of you ! But it does not matter. We are 
 not here to hold the balance for optimism and pessimism : 
 we are here to see the picture." 
 
 Bering looked at him a minute — straight in the eyes. 
 Then he walked to the other side of the room, where a heavy 
 upright easel stood, the big canvas clamped to it having its 
 face turned to the wall. The easel was on wheels and the 
 painter pushed it into position without effort. At the last 
 moment he turned it sharply and brought the picture before 
 the little group. 
 
 The canvas was very large and it held the three-quarter- 
 length, life-size portrait of a gentle-looking old man with 
 white hair. Of accessories there were none. The Pope was 
 sitting in an arm-chair covered with dark-coloured velvet, and 
 I he was wearing his familiar white cloth cassock, his white 
 
 I 
 
 i 
 I 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 cape and broad white sash fringed with gold : on his 
 beautiful white hair rested a white skull cap. The whole 
 picture gave an instant impression of dazzling whiteness and, 
 with evident intention, the gold embroideries on the sash had 
 been so subdued that they seemed to melt away into the 
 mysterious blackness of the vague background. It was the 
 portrait of an old man who looked a little weary. The 
 rather heavy face was slightly inclined to one side, and the 
 determined mouth, strong of outline but capable of great 
 sweetness, was set. The right arm of the white-robed figure 
 rested on a table and the hand was raised, the first and 
 second fingers separated from the others, in Benediction. 
 The conception of the picture was simplicity itself, but the 
 triumph of the artist lay in the wonderful expression of the 
 eyes — haunting eyes, embedded in thoughtful lids, looking 
 out on the world — and far beyond it, out into futurity. 
 
 Doyenbert had not seen the picture since the early days 
 when he and the painter had had a heated discussion about 
 it : at least the critic had been heated. He had then washed 
 his hands of the whole affair, leaving it to his old friend 
 the Cardinal to demand any alterations he might consider 
 advisable. He had been keenly disappointed over Bering's 
 conception of the portrait. It was not at all what he had 
 expected, or hoped for. His own picture, that amazing 
 portrait of nerves," was ten times more remarkable. He 
 had faith in Bering's talent — which he believed amounted 
 almost to genius — but he had begun to fear that Violet 
 Hilliard would prove an obstacle in the path of an otherwise 
 certain success. He had disliked the girl from the beginning, 
 but of recent days he had come to hate her, for he believed 
 that it was, in some way, due to her influence that the man 
 in whom he felt such an interest had elected to paint an 
 ordinary popular" picture. For popular" was the word 
 he had applied to it in its early stages. 
 
 And now that he saw it finished he could hardly bring 
 himself to be just, even to himself as a trained critic. 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 215 
 
 He was prepared to dislike the portrait and, quite 
 honestly, he did not know, for the first minute or two, 
 whether he liked it or not : only he knew that it surprised 
 him. There was something in it he did not understand and 
 could not account for. The hand was raised in Benediction 
 but the face gave the impression that the Holy Father was 
 receiving — rather than giving. 
 
 There was silence in the big studio: then Doyenbert 
 said — slowly. 
 
 What was your idea in this? That is the face of a man 
 who is listening — to what ? " 
 
 A slight sound, could it have been a chuckle, broke from 
 the Cardinal. He sat up very straight in his chair. 
 
 " * es Petrus^ et super hanc peiram cedificabo Ecclesiam 
 meam, ' " 
 
 The golden voice, which had so often brought tears to the 
 eyes of listeners, in the Preface and in the Paternoster, 
 seemed to have regained the strength of youth : it rang 
 through the great room. 
 
 Everyone turned towards the old man and he met the 
 questioning glances with a beaming smile. 
 
 have waited for this moment — quite a long time! I 
 have been a very sinful old man, my dear friend," stretching 
 out his white hand to Doyenbert, "for 1 have wanted to 
 * catch you out,' as the children say. I had hoped so very 
 much that I should have just one Httle triumph over the 
 greatest of critics — that I, a poor ignorant old man, should 
 be in a position to show you why this portrait is one of the 
 greatest ever painted — in modern days at least. It is 
 a portrait of the heart of the Church — Doyenbert. It is 
 symbolic of the Church — in all ages. The Holy Father is 
 listening — you appreciated that ? He is listening to the words 
 which have rung through the ages and which form our war- 
 cry ; * Tu es Petrus ! ' He is listening, and as he hstens he 
 speaks — the Benediction. He receives, and as he receives he 
 bestows. Is not that the ideal Church and the ideal, Earthly, 
 
2i6 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 Head? I have hugged to myself my knowledge of this 
 picture, and, time and again, have rejoiced over it. And my 
 joy has been only partly selfish, for this portrait will decide 
 the position of our young friend here — in the world of art. 
 It is truly great, and everyone will have to admit it — sooner or 
 later. I think it will be sooner." 
 
 He looked round on the eager faces of his listeners and 
 smiled. Then he beckoned Bering to his side. 
 
 I am satisfied, my son, and — I find that I am tired ! 
 The excitement of evil designs is not for a poor old man 
 such as I am. My niece and I will take our leave but I 
 wish you to feel sure that the Holy Father is perfectly 
 satisfied and that he and I pray constantly for your happiness. 
 You are a good boy — you deserve the reward of a courageous 
 optimist!'' He glanced at the doctor, who was still looking 
 closely at the picture, and smiled slyly. " I take credit to 
 myself that I did not bring forward my excellent little play 
 on words which included * inception ' ! '' Then as Bering 
 bent low and laid his lips on the dehcate old hand the golden 
 voice murmured softly : Noctem quietam et finem perfectum 
 concedat nobis Bominus omnipotens." 
 
 When Bering returned to the studio, after having seen 
 the Cardinal and his niece into their old-fashioned carriage, 
 upholstered in black and drawn by sombre black horses, 
 three persons were standing close together, conversing in 
 low tones : as he entered they moved apart and Mrs Waring 
 prepared to go. 
 
 Boyenbert came back to the picture and stood before it. 
 
 "The Cardinal was right — it is a masterpiece. I beheve 
 it to be the greatest portrait of modern days." 
 
 He spoke calmly, almost coldly, but Bering understood 
 him. A slight flush rose to his bronzed face and he grasped 
 the doctor's hand. 
 
 " Thanks," he said quietly. " I am more than gratified. 
 I wish, to-day more than ever, that Uncle Jack could come 
 
« 
 
 A PAINTER OF SOULS 217 
 
 back to us — even for a day or two. The dear old fellow 
 was so overpoweringly anxious to see me fairly launched." 
 
 Doyenbert's face grew suddenly hard and he compressed 
 his thin lips. Then seeing that Mrs Waring was waiting 
 to say good-bye, he turned towards the door. 
 
 " Much better off where he is. He set your happiness 
 before everything. I am not so sure that I want him back." 
 
 He held the big carved door wide open, and as Mrs 
 Waring and Underwood passed out he followed them. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 SIR WESTON HILLIARD was smoking an after 
 dejeuner cigar in a small salon which gave oflf the 
 red and gold dining-room belonging to the Comtesse de 
 Brissac's suite at the Hotel Bristol. 
 
 He was feeling, and looking, a contented man. 
 Tall and straight, with a well-preserved figure and dark- 
 brown hair that owed something to art, he was distinguished- 
 looking as well as handsome, and to the ordinary observer 
 his heavy-lidded grey eyes seemed attractive. Here and 
 there persons were to be found who declared that the sporting 
 Baronet had the eyes of a society pawnbroker : that he could, 
 at a single glance, sum up the possibilities of a fluttering 
 human pigeon and realize the exact amount of skill, also 
 the nature of same, required for the quiet plucking of the 
 golden feathers. 
 
 Certain it was that Weston Hilliard knew something 
 of human weaknesses and that he was not too proud to 
 manipulate them. He was an excellent chess player, though 
 he rarely permitted himself to waste time over a game in 
 which the triumph of the brain takes the place of the triumph 
 of the purse, and he knew the value of pawns. 
 
 He was essentially and above all a credit to his tailor. 
 Most Englishmen who have the right of entry to the 
 exclusive clubs of Pall Mall seem to have been born with 
 a correct understanding of the art of dress, but in the case 
 of Sir Weston this natural understanding had been gently 
 nourished; with the result that no man in Europe could 
 wear a rough shooting suit, stained with age and a size 
 too large, with the same exasperating grace: exasperation 
 entering the field in the wake of spick-and-span foreign 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 219 
 
 "sports." With regard to his age — he might have been 
 a man of forty-five who had knocked about : or fifty-five, 
 in possession of an excellent valet : or even sixty — with 
 the backing of a Parisian coiffeur who knew how to appreciate 
 first-class recommendations. 
 
 He was undoubtedly aristocratic. Race betrayed itself 
 in the finely-cut features of the somewhat hard face, in 
 the delicate beauty of the long-fingered white hands and 
 in the small feet, of which he was inordinately vain. He 
 was connected, by blood or by marriage, with many of the 
 most notable families of England, but he was inconveniently 
 and chronically hard up. At least he had been, almost 
 always. 
 
 But now ? 
 
 He softly drew in a volume of smoke and very slowly 
 emitted it through his nostrils. Things were marching ! 
 
 No more idiotic boys who wanted to see life without 
 paying the proper price. No more tiresome notices from 
 tradespeople who failed, after a due season, to realize 
 that to be patronized by Sir Weston Hilliard was, in itself, 
 an all-sufficient compliment. No more clever little tricks 
 with cards which, once or twice, had caused silly boys, 
 prompted by morning libations of soda-water and splitting 
 headaches, to say awkward things. 
 
 Certainly no one had ever proved anything. What had 
 there been to prove ? But all the same the life of a fashion- 
 able man of the world becomes wearing when the lack of 
 pounds — to shiUings or pence the Baronet gave little heed 
 except when overlooking the outstretched hands of menials 
 in the vestibule of an hotel — was continually forcing itself 
 to the front. 
 
 He had worked hard, a deuced deal too hard, all his 
 life; and now he was about to enjoy an Indian summer. 
 He silently asked a blessing on his dead wife — ^who, poor 
 dear, had been such a wet blanket while she lived — for 
 having presented him with a daughter. For having given 
 
220 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 him the means of securing comfort and — yes, cer- 
 tainly he might go as far as that — luxury, in his old 
 age. 
 
 Violet had been tiresome as a child. She had been 
 guilty of the abominable sin of asking questions — if not 
 with her tongue with her eyes. She had been far too wide 
 awake for a properly-educated jeune fille and, at times, 
 ridiculously romantic and sentimental. He recalled, with 
 sensations of disgust, little scenes he had had in the days 
 when he had played the role of the fond papa. She had 
 been a mere child but she had had spirit : far too much 
 of it. He had always recognized the possibilities, mental 
 and physical, embraced in his daughter's personality but 
 he had never felt sure of her. There had been times when 
 his sister's influence had seemed paramount, and anything 
 more disastrous than that influence he found impossible 
 to imagine. 
 
 But now her great chance had come — and his. 
 A marriage. And such a marriage ! 
 
 Never, in his most gilded dreams, had he ventured to 
 look for such a stroke of good luck. 
 
 Prince PlatofF wanted to marry Violet ! Had actually 
 made a formal proposal — to him, Weston Hilliard. 
 
 It was superb : all the world seemed bathed in golden 
 sunshine. 
 
 As he lay back in his big arm-chair and crossed his long 
 legs, clothed in immaculate grey, he thought of his pro- 
 spective son-in-law. Platoff — one of the wealthiest men in 
 Europe. What a stroke of luck. Unexpected : over- 
 whelmingly welcome. 
 
 The day before when he arrived in Rome he had 
 been in a vile temper. Everything had seemed black and 
 dreary. He had just come from a long interview with his 
 sister, who was staying in Florence. And his dislike for 
 that sister amounted almost to hatred. 
 
 She was a year or two older than he was, and if he had 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 221 
 
 the title it was she who had the money — inherited from an 
 eccentric old godmother. 
 
 She had settled his debts more than once but for that 
 he felt no gratitude : she had taken payment in words of 
 advice. Weston Hilliard smiled grimly as he thought of his 
 sister and her gift of saying disagreeable things. And the 
 smile broadened as he remembered that it was he who had 
 set Violet against her aunt. Miss Hilliard had really loved the 
 girl and had wished, in her rather cold way, to be kind to her, 
 but Violet, influenced by her father, had kicked against the 
 restraints of home life with a woman whose existence was 
 given up to thrusting advice on people" — this was Sir 
 Weston's phrase. 
 
 He had taken her away from her aunt and in so doing 
 he had wounded his sister sorely, but then he also had paid ; 
 had he not, for several years, saddled himself with a romantic, 
 impulsive girl who might have been useful but who couldn't 
 be depended on from hour to hour? 
 
 He looked back on the recent meeting with his sister. 
 She had said a good many unpleasant things, but that was 
 nothing new. She had also given him a piece of valuable 
 information. 
 
 It was his sister who had spoken, with undisguised disgust 
 and horror, of Prince Platoff's reported intentions with re- 
 gard to Violet. Miss Hilliard had not imagined even for a 
 moment that her brother v;ould approve of such a marriage : 
 she knew him sufficiently well but she still credited him 
 with some shght decency of feeling. And there were exist- 
 ing circumstances which made it an outrage — or so it 
 seemed to her. Weston Hilliard had listened in silence, 
 and with eyes cast down to hide their triumph. He had 
 listened and he had deprecated the rumour. ^^Tm certain 
 there's nothing in it " he had said. Nevertheless he had 
 taken train for Rome that night and in his heart there was 
 hope and determination. It would be — must be — difficult 
 to manage the situation : there was the girl to be dealt with 
 
222 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 and — there was his cousin Muriel de Brissac. And he knew 
 that the difficulty would concentrate itself there, 
 
 Platoff was in love with Violet. So much he had realized 
 in the short interview he had had, that morning, with the 
 Russian. 
 
 He loved her : he desired her : he was determined, at 
 all costs, to marry her. And the girl could easily be made 
 to see the fascination of the position. She was, he believed, 
 half in love with *^that cad of a painter," but nevertheless 
 she was his daughter and already she knew the necessity for 
 money. She had often quivered under the lash of aristocratic 
 poverty ; she had often been made to feel that the daughter 
 of a semi-professional gambler — however distinguished he 
 might be — was not a person of much account. And then 
 she was vain and pleasure-loving. That would help. 
 
 Sir Weston pressed his head against the cushions, closed 
 his eyes and gave himself up to golden dreams. 
 
 Five minutes, perhaps ten passed, and then the door 
 opened and someone entered quickly. He looked up and 
 even his selfish nature was stirred by the appearance of the 
 woman who entered. 
 
 Muriel de Brissac looked, for the first time in her life, 
 a middle-aged woman. 
 
 He stood up and drew forward a chair for her. She 
 stared at him, nervously played with the cords on the curved, 
 padded back of a luxurious lounge, and then she sat down 
 suddenly. 
 
 I won't permit it. My mind is absolutely made up. 
 I won't permit it." 
 
 He looked at her in silence. Years before he had been 
 one of her warmest admirers and always they had been close 
 friends. He had indirectly arranged her marriage with 
 Henri de Brissac, and she had many times helped him with 
 worldly advice — even with money. 
 
 He looked at her steadily and as he looked he wondered. 
 Was it possible that a woman so intelligent, so thoroughly 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 223 
 
 worldly, could really fee/ like this? Could love, or passion, 
 or the craze for possession, make a thorough-paced woman 
 of the world lose herself in this way? For that she had 
 for the moment completely lost hold on herself was evident. 
 Her face was lined and quivering : her eyes were blazing 
 with anger and defiance : her splendid red lips were tightly 
 pressed together and she was, with difficulty, controlling 
 an outburst of tears. Weston Hilliard really felt horrified. 
 He had expected anger and reproaches but — not this. And 
 just at that moment a cold hand seemed to creep round 
 his heart and to gather in his high hopes. 
 
 What if, after all, the golden dream should never 
 become a golden reality ? 
 
 He threw away his cigar and drew his chair closer, 
 
 "Muriel," he said, "look here, this is not the moment 
 for sentiment — we have to look hard facts in the face. This 
 affair cannot be agreeable to you, that I understand, but 
 it's inevitable. Platoff is a man in an important position 
 and he has no direct heir. Que voukz-vous? He must 
 marry — some time or other, and isn't it much better that 
 the matter should be arranged — in the family? You've 
 always stood up for marriages of convenience, and you know 
 just how much and how little they may mean ! Why then, 
 in the name of everything sensible, worry yourself into a 
 fever? Platoff is not going out of the family? Things 
 will remain — a peu pres^ much as they have been this long 
 time past. Violet doesn't much like him — so much I 
 gather from what you have said — but she'll like the position, 
 and he apparently wishes to marry and settle down. And 
 then I want a son-in-law who can provide decently for my 
 old age, and you — " 
 
 "Yes? And I?" 
 
 He bent forward and touched her arm. 
 
 "My dear girl, I don't want to be a brute but, honestly, 
 you need a coat of moral whitewash — and this marriage 
 will supply it. Oh, yes — it's quite true. I've heard no end 
 
224 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 of things lately. People are beginning to be very unpleasant, 
 and if things had gone on as they were going you'd soon 
 have found yourself left out in the cold : even as it is there 
 are a good many women who wouldn't ask you to dinner — 
 now. Princess Borizoff, for example, and several others." 
 
 don't care in the least for the Borizoff woman — or what 
 she may think." 
 
 " My dear Muriel — you must care. She's related to 
 Platoff and her word is law in society. The very fact that she 
 has openly sided with his sister, against you, has done you no 
 end of harm — here in Rome." 
 
 Conceited beast — I hate her." 
 
 Very likely, but that has nothing to do with the matter. 
 If you could get her to recognize you, properly, you would be 
 all right, and if Violet marries the Prince she must do so — she 
 can't help it without making a scandal." 
 
 Muriel de Brissac looked up quickly. Her cousin had 
 said just the thing likely to influence her ; he knew her very 
 well indeed. It had long been the ambition of her social life 
 to be on friendly terms with Princess Borizoff. She had 
 secretly made many attempts to get intimate with the woman 
 who ruled the world of fashion so autocratically. She had 
 even — on one single occasion — suggested to Serge Platoff 
 that he should influence his " cousin," but Platoff had smiled ; 
 and in his smile there had been meaning. The Comtesse 
 knew that Madame Borizoff considered her Outside her own 
 circle, and this knowledge had always brought with it exceed- 
 ing bitterness. 
 
 She continued to stare at the man who had dared to speak 
 so plainly, and he, with complete unconcern, returned her 
 intent look. At last she spoke. 
 
 " You imagine that Serge is in love with — your 
 daughter? " 
 
 " I am quite convinced that he is nothing of the sort ! " 
 
 And yet you wish him to marry her ?" 
 " 1 wish it most profoundly — more ardently than ever I 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 225 
 
 wished anything in my life ! I wish it for my own sake and 
 — you may believe it, Muriel — I wish it for yours. I've 
 always been fond of you and, by Jove, it cuts me up to find 
 you going downhill while you ought still to be at your best. 
 YouVe had your way a good while now, and Henri hasn't 
 made himself objectionable. You've had a splendid innings 
 and now you ought to have the sense to pull up, for a moment, 
 and let things dry straight. Platoff is no end of a good fellow, 
 but you know he could at any moment pick and choose as he 
 wished. There isn't a woman in Europe who would refuse 
 him, and if he married, out of the family, there would be an 
 end of the matter. You've been a good bit talked about and 
 if Platoff were seen with you after his marriage, that's if he 
 married a stranger, it would be the end of you, socially. If 
 Violet cared about him I wouldn't of course say these things, 
 but if she only marries him for the position it won't matter to 
 her if the world goes on in its old sweet way ? " 
 "I believe she's in love with that man Bering." 
 Very likely. My dear sister Rachel has done her best 
 to bring that about. She's hand in glove with these Derings 
 and she believes this painter cad to be one of the elect. She 
 confided her hopes to me the other day when I saw her at 
 Florence." 
 
 " It mightn't be such a bad thing. People are beginning 
 to talk about him and besides — no doubt Rachel would make 
 Violet a handsome allowance? " 
 
 It is not a pleasant thing to see a drowning animal wildly 
 endeavouring to save itself and to know that the only possible 
 means of rescue must be swept away — ruthlessly. Weston 
 Hilliard was not really a fiend, and he did not find it agreeable 
 to have to push the struggling head under water : nevertheless 
 it had to be done. 
 
 You think it would help the situation if Violet married 
 this charlatan and if Platoff married — the Lord knows 
 who ? " 
 
 Something like a sob broke in the woman's throat. 
 15 
 
226 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 " You think Serge would marry — in any case ? " 
 Tm sure of it ! He's no longer a young man, and how- 
 ever lightly the responsibilities of a great position — for he is a 
 very big pot in his own country — may sit on his shoulders 
 they exist, these responsibilities, nevertheless. At the present 
 moment he has no direct heir and it's only natural he should 
 think of the future, just a little. And then his sister, of whom 
 you have made a bitter enemy, is always reminding him of 
 his 'duty' — so I've been told. And then what could be 
 more admirable than this idea of his? He marries — that of 
 course you don't care about — but then — he remains in the 
 family ! He has been a wonder from start to finish and we 
 simply must humour him a bit ; besides that, this particular 
 marriage will be the finest thing that ever happened — for us 
 all. Tout le monde will be satisfied and you will at last take 
 your proper place in society ! And believe me a man of 
 Platoffs temperament will find you doubly attractive when 
 you are, in reality, what the newspaper men call 'a society 
 Queen.' You're still a splendid looking woman and sufficiently 
 young but you must remember that you've been younger 1 
 The good days of a beauty aren't limitless.' 
 
 She looked at him steadily. She was trying to read his 
 thoughts : trying to decide how much of his satisfaction was 
 entirely personal. She had no illusions about him but she 
 did believe m his affection for her. 
 
 Weston Hilliard smoked in silence for a few minutes. 
 Then he said : 
 
 What's there about this fellow Bering that makes the 
 women run after him ? I dined with Chesterton while I was 
 at Florence and he said it was rumoured that her great 
 almightiness, Princess Borizoff, had been seen about 
 with him?" 
 
 ''Yes, it's quite true, and Serge says he believes she actu- 
 ally has some idea of marrying him. Violet has always hated 
 the Borizoff woman and I think the idea of spoiling sport, in 
 that quarter, has had as much to do with her interest in 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 227 
 
 Dering as anything else, though she certainly does like him 
 and of course he's madly in love with her." 
 
 " That's natural enough. Violet is an attractive girl — in 
 her own way." 
 
 '*But why will you insist that he is impossible — as a 
 husband for her ? You know you've often said that Rachel 
 must be very well off, and if it would please her — ? " 
 
 " But it wouldn't please me at all that my daughter should 
 marry a complete outsider, a charlatan — all the Paris artists 
 call him that. After all I'm her father and I have a father's 
 feelings." 
 
 The Comtesse looked down. She was bracing herself for 
 a final effort, 
 
 "But they say he has just finished a most wonderful 
 portrait of the Pope and that he will get a lot of money for it. 
 People are beginning to talk about it already." 
 
 " Good Lord ! The poor dear old Pope ! And oi course 
 people are * beginning to talk' for people always talk when 
 someone has been clever enough to give them a start. This 
 chap Dering has apparently had sense enough to reahze that 
 two daubs of paint and a big canvas can create a fine reputa- 
 tion for a painter if only some individuals of the Art Critic 
 persuasion can be induced to screw up their eyes, stick out 
 thumbs as if they were deciding the fate of a gladiator, and 
 gas about * values ' and * impressions ' and * the art of to- 
 morrow.' It's a case of if-you-don't-see-it-it's-because-you- 
 aren't-one-of-the-elect ! Everyone pretends to see just a little 
 farther than his neighbour, and who's to say he doesn't ? " 
 
 The Comtesse smiled and Hilliard looked relieved. 
 
 The worst was over. 
 
 She sat quite still a minute 01 two ; then she said : 
 There won't be any serious trouble with Violet. She 
 likes Dering but I can always manage her — when I want to. 
 If / consent to this marriage there's an end of the matter." 
 
 The Baronet busied himself with a cigar which seemed 
 difficult to keep alight. The shadow of a smile hovered round 
 
228 
 
 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 the corners of his mouth. It was very necessary that his 
 cousin should believe her influence still dominant with the 
 Russian but — the situation had its comic side ! 
 
 When at last the cigar was arranged to his satisfaction he 
 looked up gravely. 
 
 *0f course. But then we must take into consideration 
 the possible interference of my revered sister Rachel ! She's 
 a particularly tough bird and will require discreet basting. 
 The dear thing is at the moment in Florence but she is 
 coming down here and she has an idea or two on the subject 
 of this entente cordiale with Russia ! " 
 
 *'But what can she do? You are Violet's father? It is 
 you who have the right to decide whom your daughter is to 
 marry ? 
 
 *'Yes — in a way; but then, my dear girl, you must 
 remember that in this case there are one or two little com- 
 plications. It's rather a delicate matter and I don't want to 
 hurt your feelings, but Rachel is capable de tout — like our 
 old friend Habakkuk ! In the cause of ^ right,' which would 
 mean the cause of her own wishes, she wouldn't hesitate to 
 make a scene, and though she is such a queer old stick-in- 
 the-mud she has plenty of friends amongst the people who 
 count. She has genius in the matter of saying disagreeable 
 things and she'd stick at nothing if she thought she was 
 * doing right.' We don't want a scandal and the only thing 
 to do, so far as I can see, is to hurry on the marriage, under 
 the rose, and to give our dear Rachel a surprise ! She has 
 a sense of honour — antiquated I grant you — and once Violet 
 was married to Platoff she'd make the best of it. You see, 
 Muriel, the plain truth is this. Violet isn't a fool and she 
 must know, more or less, how the land lies, but then for her 
 own sake she won't pretend to see — unless she's forced to 
 do so. And Rachel would force her, of that you may be 
 certain. More than that she'd tackle Platoff without a 
 moment's hesitation and just picture his feelings? And 
 picture your own position ? Half Rome laughing at you and 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 229 
 
 the other giving orders for its doors to be shut in your 
 face. I loathe such plain speaking but it's necessary — just 
 now. It's a ticklish situation and we must deal with it 
 carefully." 
 *^Yes." 
 
 The Comtesse pressed her hands to her forehead as 
 though trying to collect her thoughts. She was feeling 
 utterly miserable but she recognized the wisdom of her 
 cousin's advice. 
 
 Her love for Serge Platoff was, had long been, the one 
 great passion of her life. It was absolutely genuine — even 
 though it was not altogether disinterested. 
 
 And yet when she had accepted valuable presents from him 
 — even large sums of money — she had done so in order to 
 make herself more attractive — to him. He was inordinately 
 critical about women, and about their dress, and it had 
 become necessary for her to have the means to set off her 
 physical charms to the greatest advantage. She was not 
 really beautiful, so far as features were concerned, but she 
 had chic and this was a quality he knew how to appreciate. 
 
 She had been wonderfully happy in her friendship with 
 the man who seemed to her, of all men, the most desirable. 
 The World had said things but then it was the way of the 
 World to gossip, and no one had the right to object to what 
 her husband obviously found entirely satisfactory. 
 
 Muriel de Brissac was not a good woman, as the moralists 
 interpret the words, but she was conscious within herself that 
 she had given all that was best, perhaps even purest, in her 
 to a friendship which had no excuse from the moralist's point 
 of view. She had had the great excuse of Love, and this had 
 been more than enough for her — until now. 
 
 But now everything was changed. She felt, for the first 
 time, degraded. She had no fine code of morals, nevertheless 
 she had certain ideas and instincts which ruled her life, and 
 this thing that was apparently going to happen seemed to her 
 very ugly. And yet she was powerless. 
 
230 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 When her cousin, Weston Hilliard, had spoken to her on 
 the previous night of Platoff's proposal she had been stunned. 
 A feeling of horror — almost of terror — had taken possession 
 of her. With vehemence she had repudiated the idea : had 
 refused to consider it for a single moment. But Weston 
 Hilliard had spoken very quietly and clearly. He had not 
 insisted but he had made several things very plain. 
 
 For some reason the man she loved wished to marry the 
 young girl who was under her charge, and she knew that when 
 once the Russian set his mind on the possession of anything 
 he could not be turned aside. 
 
 But why — really, did he wish this marriage ? 
 
 Could it be that he carried his hatred of the painter so far 
 that he was willing to pay the price of marriage in order to 
 wound him ? Was there really anything in the suggestion cf 
 his wish for an heir? 
 
 Or — and this thought brought with it a terror that would 
 not be silenced, could it be that he cared for the girl ? That 
 her strange beauty had awakened in him the demon of desire? 
 
 The thought forced its way back again and again. She 
 thrust it aside with vehemence and denounced it as absurd, 
 but yet — it crept in and tore at the quivering doors of her 
 heart. 
 
 She had looked straight in the eyes of her cousin as she 
 asked him if he thought Platoff loved Violet, and she had found 
 in them nothing but amused denial ? She strove with all her 
 strength to persuade herself that the idea was ridiculous. 
 
 Over and over again she mentally reviewed the occasions 
 on which Platoff had had an opportunity of speaking to the 
 girl — alone. They were not many — of that she felt sure. 
 Twice — perhaps three times — he might have spent five 
 minutes alone with Violet while she — the Comtesse — was 
 getting ready for a drive or for a walk. 
 
 He had always been exquisitely polite and considerate but 
 it was his nature to be charming to all feminine things. 
 
 Her brain was on fire and as she stood and faced her 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 cousin the pretty little salon seemed to turn round and round, 
 slowly. 
 
 She grasped the back of the chair to steady herself. 
 
 "You wish to speak to Violet — now?" 
 
 Her voice sounded far away, and as Weston Hilliard 
 crossed the room to open the door he looked at her kindly. 
 
 "Yes. We'd better get it over. Piatoff is coming here 
 this afternoon and he expects to see her then." 
 
 "He expects to see her alone? " 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "My dear woman — she's an English girl?" 
 
 " Yes ! But he is not English." 
 
 There was a light in her eyes that warned him it would be 
 wise to temporize. 
 
 " Of course, it shall be as you think best. If you really 
 are of opinion I ought to be present at the interview — ?" 
 
 "No! / shall be present. Violet is still under my care, 
 and it is I who ought to take the lead in this matter. I shall 
 see Serge, alone, when he calls. After that I shall send 
 for her." 
 
 He bowed and held open the door. 
 
 As she passed out, slowly and with uncertain steps, he 
 looked after her and noted the graceful lines of her stately 
 figure. Then, when she had disappeared into a room at the 
 end of the passage he went back into the salon and abruptly 
 shut the door. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 VIOLET HILLIARD was at the studio in the Via Giulia. 
 She had made an appointment with Bering for a 
 sitting at eleven that morning and then, at the last moment, 
 had sent a message — Impossible to come : will call late in 
 the afternoon." 
 
 Finally, she had arrived at the rather unusual hour of 
 three, and finding that the painter was out with Dr Doyenbert 
 had spent half an hour in desultory conversation with his 
 sister. 
 
 Jessica frankly disliked her old friend's niece, and she 
 found it almost impossible to discover subjects of mutual 
 interest with which to feed the enforced tete-a-tete. She had 
 tentatively introduced various topics, but each one had been 
 paralyzed by a careless, if not scornful, glance. 
 
 Violet was in a strange mood. Irritable, highly nervous, 
 wilfully disdainful. She felt she wanted to hurt some one, 
 and had come to the studio with the intention of making 
 herself unpleasant to Miles Bering. 
 
 Since her return from Florence she had found herself 
 caught in a whirlwind of excitement. Many things had 
 happened : things which quickened dreams and set light to 
 vague ambitions. 
 
 Her father had been, for him, extraordinarily generous : 
 she had been able to appease Cerise. Muriel de Brissac had 
 been alternately moody and confidential. Prince Platoff had 
 asked her hand in marriage. 
 
 It seemed to the girl that a new world was throwing open 
 its golden gates before her. A glorious, brilliant world, where 
 women like Princess Borizoff, hated and most bitterly envied, 
 would have to stand aside when she entered : would have to 
 
 232 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 233 
 
 give place to the new star. She had received her father's 
 announcement of the Russian Prince's proposal in amazed 
 silence. As in a dream within a dream she had listened to 
 the advice of the astute man of the world. She had roused 
 Weston Hilliard's admiration by her calm self-possession, and 
 in a moment of enthusiasm, born of paternal pride and superb 
 hope, he had given her the £100 which had silenced Cerise 
 and purchased a certain gold photograph frame incrusted 
 with turquoises, which exactly matched the brushes and 
 perfume bottles on her dressing-table. Her cousin had 
 jeered at the ridiculous short-sightedness which had tempted 
 her to spend money on a mere ornament just when ornaments 
 of all kinds were certain to be showered on her, but Violet 
 had inherited a certain obstinacy that made her restive under 
 advice, and besides — she wanted the frame, had wanted it for 
 weeks. It had been her intention to make it the guardian 
 of a photo of Bering, in fencing dress, but then things'' 
 had happened and — the frame stood empty on the dainty 
 table. 
 
 Violet was for a moment alone in the big studio for 
 Jessica had gone out with the avowed intention of seeing 
 after tea." 
 
 She heaved a sigh of relief and drew a cigarette from a 
 little golden case hanging from a chain at her wrist. As she 
 lighted it she leaned back against the luxurious cushions of 
 the arm-chair and closed her eyes. 
 
 Visions — vivid, and differing widely one from the other — 
 took shape in her excited brain. She forgot her surroundings, 
 and gradually, unconsciously, passed into the land of waking 
 dreams. 
 
 She thought, but only for a brief moment, of the time 
 when she had been with her father — under his care. And as 
 she thought she shuddered and her beautiful level brows 
 contracted. 
 
 Then **Aunt Rachel " and '*the poor dears" presented 
 themselves and — so it seemed to the dreaming girl — the 
 
234 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 paused and beckoned to her very gently. And for a second 
 a little line ran upwards from the contracted brows and the 
 lovely face seemed to grow tired looking. But then a 
 triumphant smile invaded the curves of the crimson mouth 
 and a fringe of dark lashes fell back to reveal imperious eyes 
 of liquid violet, in which fires of ambition burned bright. 
 
 Platoff! One of the most sought after men in Europe. 
 Rich beyond the limits of imagination. 
 
 Platoff? A prince who could almost lay claim to royal 
 blood : the cousin — at least by marriage — of the one woman 
 in all the world whom Violet bitterly envied. 
 
 Her colour rose slowly and she smiled. He admired her 
 fervently — of that she was sure : his eyes had told the story — 
 more than once. Perhaps he really loved her — this man who 
 had had many beautiful women at his feet and who had — so it 
 was said — treated more than one woman very cruelly. Violet 
 caught her breath and though her cheeks were still flushed 
 the flood of colour no longer indicated unalloyed gratification 
 for she was thinking of her own feelings. Of the possibilities 
 — nay, the certainties — of married life. She wanted, with all 
 her strength, to become possessed of the privileges which 
 must necessarily surround Princess Platoff,'' but she was 
 conscious of a vague horror of the Prince, when she thought 
 of him as a husband. 
 
 And in the silence of the big studio she set herself the task 
 of strangling this curious horror — new-born, and, so she told 
 herself, absurd. 
 
 A little time before she had seen the Russian with other 
 eyes. He had seemed quite delightful. His manner to her 
 had been ideal, with its subtle tinge of that delicious deference 
 which is the most fitting homage that can be offered at the 
 shrine of a jeune fille. He had not changed — at least not 
 perceptibly. Had she ? And why ? 
 
 And then her wish to wound Bering made itself felt more 
 strongly than ever. His ideas, his thoughts, his ambitions, 
 all, all utterly impossible and ridiculous. 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 235 
 
 And yet what had the painter to do with the matter ? He 
 had never spoken to her of Platoff. He had not even 
 betrayed the fact that he knew of her moonhght drive with 
 Ivan Apraxine, or of the gossip it had aroused. He had been 
 silent on many subjects — but with a silence that was very 
 eloquent, and as she thought of him her mouth hardened and 
 the line between the brows grew deeper. 
 
 Certainly it was '*a bother" about Muriel, but "in the 
 world things happened, even such things as this, every 
 day. No one thought anything about it. '*0f course 
 not ! " 
 
 And yet Violet found herself thinking — hard, and without a 
 trace of happiness. 
 
 It was a bother but it was not her fault, and people — even 
 the nicest people — had convenient eyesight and well-trained 
 understanding. Every fashionable woman of her acquaintance 
 had a friend " and the friends were always marrying : nobody 
 thought anything of it. And, after all, it was much better, 
 much "more right" that Platoff should marry and put an end 
 to a certain friendship. Even from Aunt Rachel's point of 
 view it was " more right." 
 
 And then again the unwelcome colour rose and the fire of 
 triumph flickered out, for she remembered a whispered con- 
 versation, accidentally overheard, in the smaller salon which 
 led off her cousin's room. Prince Platoff was a born autocrat 
 but even he at times found it necessary to make terms— to 
 conciliate. 
 
 There was a sound of men's voices in the passage and 
 Violet lighted a fresh cigarette hastily. When the studio 
 door opened to admit Doyenbert and Bering she was lying 
 back in her chair in an insolent attitude, with a delicate column 
 of smoke issuing from her lips, red as ripe cherries, and in her 
 eyes a gleam of virile defiance. Bering glanced at her search- 
 ingly as he took her outstretched hand and then he 
 looked aside. He had seen enough to warn him of danger 
 ahead. 
 
236 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 Doyenbert bowed over her hand with his habitual gesture 
 of extravagant homage and threw hinaself into a chair by her 
 side. 
 
 "You are deliciously modern, Mademoiselle," he said. 
 You smoke, you are a notable bridge player, you rival La 
 belle Otero as a dancer, you are an excellent judge of 
 champagne — and other things, so I have been told. You are 
 in fact amazing. La jeune fille de demain — rCesi-ce pas ? " 
 
 As he spoke he leaned his arm familiarly on her chair and 
 Bering frowned. Violet resented the obvious familiarity but 
 she also resented, vigorously, the frown. There was provoca- 
 tion in her eyes and seduction in the curves of her lips as she 
 leaned back and looked at the critic. 
 
 ''She does not meet with your approval — the j^une fille de 
 demain ? " 
 
 Doyenbert laughed. 
 
 *' 'Approval ' ? What a cold, terribly English, word 1 We 
 'approve' the lives of the Saints, and the ultimate success of 
 the immortal individual who begins life with a dollar, and the 
 unselfish sister who eats all the crusts and lights the fires 
 when the maid-of-all-work is laid up ! We ' approve ' of 
 many things — at least those of us do who approve of approval 
 — but with regard to the amazing jeune fille de demain — ? 
 No ! I do not think I ' approve ' of her, but I recognize her 
 charm. She is a young lady whom one might strangle or 
 whom one might gratify by the sight of a burning Rome — 
 according to temperament and temptation !" 
 
 " You think that at the present day there are men who 
 would try to burn Rome in order to gratify a woman ? 
 
 "'In the present day'? But why not — if such ever 
 existed? Do you suppose that your sex has lost power or 
 that ours has gained — common sense? " 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders petulantly. 
 
 " It seems to me that the men of the present day — some 
 of them, are composed of common sense and of little 
 else." 
 
A PAINTER OF SOXJLS 237 
 
 Doyenbert glanced up at Bering. His smile was pro- 
 vocative. 
 
 " TouchS?^^ he said interrogatively. 
 
 Bering was arranging Violet's tea on a small wicker table, 
 near her chair ; he seemed quite unconcerned. 
 
 " Tm not one of those who jeer at common sense,'' he said. 
 " It's a useful quality, especially if it runs in harness with 
 a certain amount of spirit." 
 
 " You wouldn't have gone dow^n amongst the lions for that 
 fair lady's glove, I imagine ? " 
 
 Violet took no pains to conceal a sneer and Boyenbert 
 nestled back in his chair, well pleased ; but still the painter 
 showed no emotion. He towered over the girl as he stood 
 by her side and handed her some foie gras sandwiches. 
 
 Oh, yes— I rather think I should," he said. But I'm 
 not at all sure I wouldn't have given her a sharp slap on the 
 cheek with it when I returned ! A woman has no business 
 to do idiotic things like that." 
 
 You think it idiotic for a woman to want to feel quite 
 sure that a man would risk his life for her?" 
 
 Absolutely ! If she got him to prove he was willing to 
 risk life with her there would be some sense in it." 
 With her?" 
 
 Bering nodded and just then the doctor rose and declared 
 he had not time to take tea. 
 
 " I leave with profound regret," he said, as he saluted the 
 girl. " I believe that a clash of verbal swords is imminent 
 and I should have thoroughly enjoyed the encounter, but I 
 have an engagement, of some importance. You will pardon 
 me — Mademoiselle? And you will tell me, another time, 
 all about the assaut?^^ 
 
 He kissed her hand as though she were a young married 
 woman and, avoiding Bering's glance, passed swiftly from the 
 room. 
 
 When the painter had closed the great carved door he 
 came back and took the seat just vacated by the critic. 
 
238 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 What's wrong ? " he asked softly. Your plumage is 
 all ruffled up the wrong way ! " 
 
 Violet made a grimace and breathed out a very perfect 
 ring of smoke. 
 
 "Aren't you shocked? " she asked. " You don't approve 
 of women who smoke — do you ? And you don't approve of 
 girls who dance a cotillon at a public ball, or of — lots of other 
 things ? Oh, yes — I have heard of things you've said and I 
 don't wonder they call you * the good young man who 
 paints.' " 
 
 Do they? " Bering's laugh was pleasant to hear but there 
 was something in his eyes that made her feel uncomfortable. 
 "It's a terrific goblin — this *they' of yours ! And who said 
 I didn't approve of women who smoke and what are the * lots 
 of other things'? I willingly grant you the cotillon at a 
 public bail, and if you're greedy for more disapprovals I throw 
 in a moonlight drive which enabled a certain individual to 
 win a considerable bet ! " 
 "Who told you that?'' 
 
 Violet's cheeks were flaming and there was a dangerous 
 light in her eyes. Bering looked at her and smiled. 
 " * They ' talked about it — pretty freely." 
 " You mean that he did ? " 
 " Well, what did you expect ? " 
 
 "I don't believe a word of it. No gentleman would speak 
 of — such an accident." 
 
 "I'm entirely of that opinion.'' 
 
 The girl looked at him angrily but the hot colour slowly 
 faded from her face. It was impossible to resist Bering's 
 manner : it gave an impression of absolute self-possession ; 
 of calm that was far removed from coldness. A beautiful 
 actress who had loved him — in silence and in vain, once said 
 of him, " Miles Bering reminds me of a sleeping volcano : 
 one never knows when the flames will break out." And 
 Violet Milliard also recognized that under that exasperating 
 self-control a vehement, almost violent, nature existed. There 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 had been moments when she had taken delight in skating on 
 the thin ice. She had once or twice been very sweet to him 
 and she remembered how quickly he had responded, and 
 how delightfully. She felt, she knew, that it was in her power 
 to break down that wall of self-control, and sometimes she 
 longed to do it. He was so splendid but — so tiresome ! 
 
 He would insist on taking everything so seriously. It was 
 ridiculous but, in a way, it was fine : she had to acknowledge 
 that. 
 
 And then — the simple truth was that she was afraid of 
 him : afraid of his influence. She had the power and, very 
 often, the wish to rouse him thoroughly, but had she the power 
 to resist him ? 
 
 If once the sluice-gates of his emotions were raised couid 
 she resist ? Was it even likely that she would wish to do so ? 
 And what then ? Marry him ? No ! 
 
 Bering was making a cigarette and he seemed engrossed 
 in the task of manipulating the tiny piece of paper. His head 
 was bent and the girl could not see his eyes. She watched 
 him furtively and as she noted the firm, square chin and jaw 
 she said to herself that it would be madness to think of 
 marrying him. No woman, not even the one to whom he 
 gave his most passionate love, could alter his character, or his 
 ideas. And from a worldly point of view he was quite 
 mpossible. 
 
 He might make money but he would never keep it, or 
 spend it in a way that was worth while. Nothing would 
 make him "practical," and she had a vague conviction 
 that he could, in time, bring her to see with his eyes. 
 She shuddered. 
 
 Bering looked up ; the unlighted cigarette was in his 
 left hand and with his right he reached forward for a match- 
 box. 
 
 "What's the matter — really?" he asked softly. "You're 
 a young woman of moods, but to-day — I'm puzzled : I don't 
 quite understand you." 
 
240 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 YouVe never understood me — you never will — you never 
 could." 
 
 ^*Why?" 
 
 The single word was spoken very quietly but there was a 
 mischievous light in the dark eyes. The girl's quick temper 
 awoke. 
 
 Because we don't belong to the same world. Because 
 where you see black I see white. Because you're ruled by 
 sentiment and I'm ruled by — " 
 
 Temper?" 
 
 Bering tangled his brown fingers in the milange of paws 
 and tails fringing her long fur scarf. The mass of pure white 
 fox set off to perfection her delicate complexion and she was 
 looking adorably pretty in black velvet, with a big black 
 picture hat pressed down on her fair hair. 
 
 He gave the scarf a deft twist and the fur brushed her 
 cheek. 
 
 What's the matter ? You shan't have any more tea until 
 you own up." 
 
 She caught the scarf and threw the loose end over her 
 shoulder. She was getting angry. 
 
 " I don't know what you mean by * own up ' but if you 
 want me to speak plainly I'm quite willing to do so. I don't 
 like the portrait and I don't think it's a bit like me. And I'm 
 sick to death of people who are always preaching." 
 
 Bering looked at her sharply. Then he got up and 
 walked towards a big easel standing at the end of the studio. 
 He turned it round and wheeled it forward. The canvas 
 clamped to it held the portrait of a girl, standing half in 
 shadow by a lake where lotus lilies blossomed in profusion. 
 She was robed in purest white and a haze of golden sunlight 
 enveloped her figure and face. Her head was raised and she 
 was looking across the lake at something, or someone — her 
 lips curved in a divine smile and love-light dancing in her 
 wonderful eyes. The picture was unfinished but it already 
 gave an impression of warmth and gladness equal in insistency 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 to the impression of intense cold which all had recognized in 
 the painter's " Russia." 
 
 For a single moment Bering looked at his work and then 
 he deliberately drew a knife from his pocket and slashed the 
 canvas right across. Violet uttered a horrified cry and sprang 
 forward. 
 
 **What are you doing?" she cried. **The picture isn't 
 yours. Aunt Rachel ordered it and besides — it was lovely ! 
 Oh — what a shame to spoil it like that." 
 
 "At this moment the picture is mine — by every right. 
 It's the child of my brain and of my hand and I never at any 
 time intended it to leave the studio. You profess to be a 
 great admirer of Lucci's work? Well — now you have an 
 opportunity of being * taken ' in a Cleopatra pose ! I will 
 make full explanations to * Aunt Rachel.' " 
 
 " But it was a brutal thing to do — and it was so beautiful." 
 
 " You admit that ? " 
 
 Bering turned the easel with a quick action of the wrist 
 and pushed it aside. The girl was standing before him, her 
 eyes full of amazement and something like terror, and as he 
 looked at her he smiled. He pulled forward her chair and 
 motioned her to sit down again. 
 
 *'It has fulfilled its purpose," he said. It has shown 
 you — what shall I say — Mirage? It was a portrait which 
 concerned two persons only — you and me. We've seen it and 
 somehow, I don't think either of us will forget it very 
 quickly. You don't like it — now^ but some day? Who 
 knows ! " 
 
 " But I did like it — only it wasn't really like me. It was 
 the portrait of an angel and there's absolutely nothing angehc 
 about me, I'm thankful to say. And then I never could 
 understand what I was supposed to be looking at. The 
 whole idea was exaggeratedly sentimental though I admit the 
 effect was good." 
 
 "You understand perfectly." He was answering a 
 
 thought and a faint flush crept up into the girl's face. " You 
 16 
 
242 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 have always understood but you needn't be so frightened. I 
 may be sentimental and * stupid' but I'm not entirely lacking 
 in intelligence, and I assure you I've no intention of asking a 
 question at a moment when the answer is bound to be 'no ' ! 
 You've been trying very hard lately to keep me on *safe 
 subjsicts,' one of your own phrases you will remember, but 
 really you needn't be afraid ! I shouldn't value a thing that 
 wasn't given me willingly, and you know I always warned you 
 that I'm something of a clairvoyant?''^ 
 
 Violet caught her breath. Her hands were so tightly 
 clasped together that her slender fingers ached. He was 
 exasperating ! 
 
 She wanted to say something crushing : something that 
 would make him realize that she did not care — for the picture, 
 or for its creator and destroyer ! 
 
 She had come to the studio with the express intention of 
 being disagreeable to him and — should she find opportunity, 
 and courage, of bringing up the subject of Prince Platoff. 
 She was not prepared to say tiiat she was actually engaged to 
 the Russian : as a matter of fact she was not^ for she had 
 asked for a few days in which to consider the situation, and 
 her father had agreed, well pleased that she should seem to 
 hesitate. He knew his suggested son in-law very well and 
 was aware that he, like others of his sex, did not specially 
 value fruit which was ready to drop into his mouth. 
 
 Violet had persuaded herself that it would be a triumph 
 to let the painter know she was about to become a Princess, 
 but in her heart she knew that she dreaded his reception of 
 the news. She found it impossible to conceal the certainty 
 that he would regard the situation with contempt and 
 loathing. 
 
 Miles Bering was exasperating ! 
 
 She told herself that for the hundredth time. His ideas 
 were ridii ulous and out-of-date. And yet it was undeniable 
 that he had considerable influence — and in unexpected 
 quarters. People in her world were fond of calling him a 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 charlatan and a *^a goody-goody young man," but it was 
 always behind his back. Women did not care to face the 
 flash of his eyes just as men avoided the flash of his sword. 
 He was exasperating but he was indomitable and in no 
 respect was he small. 
 
 He was looking at her with masterful, adoring eyes and 
 she hasteaed to break the oppressive silence. 
 
 don't know in the least what you mean," she said 
 insolently, but if you can explain satisfactorily to my aunt 
 it's all right. The picture, being your work, was of course 
 very beautiful, but I think a portrait ought to resemble the 
 person who sat for it and certainly I do not look like an 
 angel — in love." 
 
 " Ah — I thought you understood ! No, at this moment you 
 don't resemble an angel at all, in love or out. You're a very 
 perfectly dressed society girl who likes to write the word 
 WORLD in capitals and who persuades herself that she 
 worships the Almighty Dollar ! " 
 
 But I do worship it. At least I know it's the only thing 
 worth bothering about in this life." 
 
 It amuses you to think you * know ' that ! " 
 
 " No. It's quite true. Yes — I assure you," in answer to 
 his decided shake of the head, " I know myself and you don't 
 know me at all. If one hasn't money and position life isn't 
 worth living — at least that's my opinion. You condemn 
 such an idea just as you condemn my World and everything 
 connected with it, but that's because you're a faddist. You 
 make a god of poverty and another of self-sacrifice just as we 
 — so you say — make a god of riches." 
 
 * We ' ? And why ' condemn ' ? Must I necessarily 
 * condemn ' because I refuse to imitate ? " 
 
 "Of course not — 'necessarily,' but you do — all the 
 same." 
 
 **What?" 
 
 "Condemn." 
 
 Bering shook his head. 
 
244 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 No ! But I admit I think it stupid to jeer at everything 
 that makes for good. Your beloved world thinks itself a 
 very fine and most exotic creation, but one doesn't need a 
 magnifying glass to see that it's largely made up of banalities 
 and incomprehensible stupidities. Why, your much-vaunted 
 Worldlings are, the majority of them, simply patient obedient 
 sheep who trot this way and that when the bell tinkles ; and 
 who manipulates the bell? The demon of ennui who can 
 find nothing better to do than to make you all rush, helter- 
 skelter up hill and down dale to the tune of * Who wouldn't 
 be a go-to-the-devil-buster ! ' Your world professes to find 
 the King of Evil subtle and essentially smart, and the King 
 of Helpfulness, tiresome and out-of-date, but let me assure 
 you that your World's boon companion, the Devil, is a creature 
 of considerable intelligence who wouldn't take the trouble to 
 fork your worldUngs into his fire : he doesn't care for tame 
 sport ! It's rather the fashion, in certain circles, to think 
 it a fine thing to * go to the devil,' but it's not all those who 
 * go ' who will find themselves appreciated by the wily old 
 serpent, who is so curiously misunderstood. Why, this 
 personage who tempts you with showers of money and chains 
 of diamonds and titles and heaven knows what besides was 
 once an angel — remember that. He once had the oppor- 
 tunity to pit himself against his Creator, and do you suppose 
 that he became an imbecile on being cast out ? Not at all ! 
 Believe me he knows very well how to take your World and 
 your Worldlings at a just valuation, and if he spoke the truth 
 he'd admit that it's a finer feather in his cap to get the better 
 of a single Saint than of five hundred stupid * sinners,' who 
 haven't even enough sense to sin intelligently." 
 
 The words rushed out headlong and Bering was breath- 
 less. As he stopped short he broke into laughter. 
 
 **You think I'm mad?" he asked as he leaned back 
 in his chair and looked at the girl's amazed face. 
 
 No — not exactly, but certainly you have the most 
 extraordinary ideas." 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 245 
 
 **No. It's the ideas of your World that are extraordinary. 
 Nature never intended us to destroy the germs of individuality 
 and remain satisfied to copy the parrot tribe. Each one 
 of us differs, the one from the other, as much in nature 
 as in face, and yet men and women are content, even proud, 
 to think in droves and to act in droves. They make money 
 that they may have more than their fellows and spend it 
 that they may spend more than their fellows. The majority 
 of women dress to out-dress other women, and entertain 
 because they want to go one better than the people who 
 have entertained them. Women marry for * position' and 
 bring up their children to worship ' position ' : for * position ' 
 men and women of intelligence and, au fond^ fine character 
 scheme and lie and crawl and bluster. And what is 
 * position' after all? An admirable prize for a decently 
 contested race, but as a god ? Don't you see that * position ' 
 must always be comparative? You have won your little 
 god by means which, probably, wouldn't bear the light 
 of day, but when you stick him on a pedestal and prepare 
 to worship him you find that your next-door neighbour has 
 a higher pedestal and a bigger god and then — what's the 
 good ! So far as I'm personally concerned I shouldn't bother 
 a bit about the apes and parrots of the World if only they 
 v^ould stay on their perches and in their gilded cages and 
 cease to jeer at and molest individuals who are of opinion 
 that intelligence is worthy of praise. Be a parrot if you 
 like but do realize that it's a finer thing to initiate than to 
 imitate, and that it's much easier to screech * you're a goody- 
 goody — ha — ha' from a perch than to take time to help 
 even one lame dog over a stile." 
 
 Violet's cheeks flushed. He had the power to make 
 her remember, even to regret, the "poor dears." 
 
 She rose quickly. 
 
 "I must go," she said. **I have an appointment — with 
 Muriel." 
 
 Bering looked down at her. He felt strongly tempted 
 
246 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 to take risks, to throw wisdom to the winds and to speak 
 out all that was in his heart. He knew it was not an 
 auspicious moment — that the girl was in a wayward mood 
 and that something, he knew not what, had ruffled her 
 temper, but then — she was so lovable : so perfectly exquisite ! 
 And he knew — he had always known, it was in his power 
 to take possession of her life. She fancied she was wedded 
 to the World and she imagined he would not allow her 
 to enjoy its delights, but nevertheless — and even without 
 meeting her half-way — he had the power to dominate 
 her. 
 
 There was in Bering a curiously perverse spirit which 
 often made him tempt people to misunderstand him. Even 
 with those he loved best he was fond of playing tricks. He 
 was absolutely convinced that Violet Hilliard loved him 
 but he saw clearly that her mind was " wobbly " as to his 
 possibilities and he loved to play with her. 
 
 But as they stood together in the darkening studio, 
 quite alone, his heart throbbed violently and a wave of 
 delicious emotion flooded his whole being. He caught her 
 hands and vehement words were beating against the 
 door of his lips when she looked up and abruptly drew 
 back. 
 
 " Please don't keep me," she said petulantly. " I really 
 have an important engagement. I'm going with Muriel 
 to see some wonderful old porcelain belonging to Comte 
 Apraxine." 
 
 In the moment of silence that followed Bering cursed 
 his own folly. He also was wobbly"! He could neither 
 make up his mind to snatch his prize and hold it against 
 all comers or — to wait until it was ready to come to him. 
 He was conscious of the roughness with which he grasped 
 the delicate little hands but he did not pause to collect 
 himself. 
 
 You're going to his hotel? " 
 
 *^ I suppose so." 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 247 
 
 Violet was frightened and her voice trembled. Again 
 there was silence and then Bering spoke quite 
 calmly. 
 
 *' Have you yet paid toll to Trevi ? " he asked in- 
 consequently. "No? Well — you mustn't put it off any 
 longer. I'll drive you there now and I promise to have you 
 back at the Bristol in time to dress for dinner." 
 "But I told you I had promised — Muriel?'* 
 "Yes, but she can manage very well without 
 you." 
 
 "But if we're seen? You know you said — one ought 
 not to drive alone with a man after dark?" 
 
 " This is before dark and I am not Apraxine." 
 
 He held the door open for her to pass out. Silence 
 was between them as they walked down the wide corridor 
 and descended the marble steps which led to the 
 street. 
 
 The fountains of Rome play an important r61e in the 
 daily life of the Eternal City. Some are very beautiful 
 and situated in romantic surroundings. Some are chiefly 
 useful, as the big fountain outside the Porta Maggiore 
 which is daily used as a wash-tub by the women of the 
 quarter. Amongst the remarkable monuments of Rome 
 may be counted the exquisite Fountain of the Tortoises 
 by the Palazzo Mattel, and scarcely less beautiful is the 
 Fountain of the Aqua Felice in the Via Venti Settembre. 
 But to all foreigners the Fontana di Trevi, in the Quirinale 
 quarter, is a very special point of interest. The great 
 fountain itself is sufficiently imposing and a fine specimen 
 of Baroque work, but the interest attached to Trevi is 
 personal — to each one who lingers beside its majestic 
 basin. 
 
 Those who pay toll to Trevi's flowing waters mus( 
 return to Rome — and before very long ! 
 
 The fountain is like a woman of moods. Sometimes — 
 
248 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 in the glare of noonday — it seems arrogant and aggressive : 
 sometimes — when the piazza is deserted — it seems mysterious 
 and strangely aloof. In the silence of night, with the 
 moon lamp overhead, it is simply glorious: the "virgin 
 waters " whisper of past glories and of possibilities — for the 
 future. 
 
 Bering knew and loved Trevi in all its phases but 
 he was not thinking of its many fascinations when he 
 suggested to Violet Hilliard that they should visit it. 
 
 Trevi had rushed to his lips at a moment when he 
 was searching an excuse to detain her and he accepted 
 the suggestion. 
 
 The shadows of twilight were creeping in when they 
 reached the Palazzo Poli and, for the moment, the fountain 
 was deserted : as they stood together by the lake of quivering 
 waters they seemed alone. 
 
 Violet's mood had changed for the worse. Petulance 
 had given place to satire and more than once, during the 
 drive, she had been positively rude. 
 
 She was angry — with herself, with Bering, with the whole 
 situation. She had made up her mind to do a certain thing 
 and now — it had become more than ever difficult. She told 
 herself again and again that all the world would envy her 
 when they heard of her engagement to Prince Platoff, but she 
 knew that one man would despise her. 
 
 And that one man counted. It made her furious to 
 realize how much he counted. 
 
 She had been rude to him, and with intention. She had 
 tried by every means in her power to make him angry but she 
 had only succeeded in making him silent. 
 
 Then as they stood and looked at the dancing waters she 
 drew a gold coin from a little purse hanging from her wrist and 
 held it in her fingers. 
 
 "This ought to bring me luck," she said meaningly, "I 
 won it last night at bridge — from Prince Platoff." 
 "Platoff?" 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 "Yes. Comte Apraxine and I were playing against 
 Muriel and Serge Platoff — and we won quite a considerable 
 sum.'' 
 
 "Where?'' 
 
 There was something in the stern voice that made the girl 
 tremble but she was determined to go on. 
 
 " At the Villa Platoff. Muriel and I dined there." 
 "And your father? " 
 
 "No!" She looked up in his face and smiled. "Are 
 you shocked again ? Don't you consider Madame de Brissac 
 sufficient chaperon for me ? " 
 
 He looked at her in silence. 
 
 Thoughts, violent, dark, crowded through his brain. 
 What was she — really, this girl he so passionately adored? 
 Was she ignorant of what was going on round her — or was 
 she indifferent? Was she merely trying to tease him or — was 
 there something behind it all? 
 
 His face was set and stern. Then it cleared — slowly. 
 
 " I don't think we'll tempt Trevi with Russian gold, but it 
 may as well do some good." He turned and spoke a word or 
 two in soft Italian to an old woman who had paused near 
 them and who was holding out a withered hand. "Give it 
 to her," he said authoritatively and the girl obeyed. He 
 smiled as he gave her another coin and at the same time 
 bent down and scooped up some of the water in the palm of 
 his right hand. "Drink," he said, "and then drop in the 
 coin and wish — to come back to Rome, with me." 
 
 The last words were spoken so low that she divined 
 rather than heard them but again she obeyed. A sudden 
 revulsion of feeling had taken possession of her and there 
 were tears in her eyes when she bent over the ever-flowing 
 waters. 
 
 " Now I'll take you back to the Bristol, but to-morrow I 
 must see ou. What time — and where ? " 
 
 " Oh— I don't know. The studio, I think— but I don't 
 know when — exactly." 
 
250 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 " I shall wait for you — all day.'' 
 
 She pulled her furs up about her face and bent her head 
 so that he could see nothing but her hat. On the night of 
 the morrow there was to be a ball at the Villa Platoff and — 
 her engagement was to be announced. 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 A FEW days after the private view'* at Bering's studio 
 Clio Waring received a curt note from Underwood : a 
 note which puzzled her a Httle and perturbed her a great 
 deal. 
 
 It simply contained the words — evidently written in great 
 haste — Am summoned to America : must see you this after- 
 noon : shall call at five." It read like a telegram. And it 
 meant ? 
 
 Clio had not the slightest doubt as to its meaning. 
 
 The moment, carefully deferred, had come at last. The 
 decision had to be made — and within a short quarter of an 
 hour, for she had been out when the note arrived. 
 
 With a nervous gesture of impatience she took off her hat 
 and threw it aside ; then, almost unconsciously, she rearranged 
 the roses with which the pretty room seemed almost filled. 
 All the time she was thinking hard. 
 
 She loved him — this great strong man who seemed to con- 
 sider her still a child and who was prepared to spoil her to her 
 heart's content : and Clio loved to be spoiled and made much 
 of. Certainly she loved him and it now seemed impossible to 
 picture her life without him, but old memories had crept in, 
 bringing her messages — from the dead. And the memories 
 defied her when she wished to stifle their small voices. 
 
 She left the roses, walked quickly to the windows and 
 drew across the curtains to partly shut out the blaze of light 
 from a sun already preparing to sink into the West. Then 
 she sat down on a big square sofa and pushed back her hair 
 from her forehead : she felt feverishly excited. 
 
 Her life had been an eventful one, in many ways : she had 
 had a great deal of amusement and a certain amount of un- 
 
 251 
 
252 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 happiness. She had known disappointment and disillusion. 
 When she looked back on her married life it seemed to her 
 now, a nightmare : and yet she had really cared for " poor old 
 Charlie" — only, not as a husband. He had been good- 
 natured and very amusing — when he was all right; he had 
 been fond of her and generous to a fault. 
 
 But it seemed to Clio that she had never really been 
 married, and she had come to see that a happy marriage was 
 something to be desired — most fervently. 
 
 And she had found her other self"! She was quite 
 certain that never again, in all her life, would she encounter 
 a man so capable of making her blissfully happy : *'Jim'' — 
 already in her thoughts he was ^'/im^^ — was delightful. 
 
 Happiness was within her grasp and she dared not accept 
 it. She knew, even while resolutely fighting the sleepless 
 memories, that she must let it slip by. And the knowledge 
 was cruel. 
 
 She rose abruptly, went to a long mirror set in a panel of 
 the dull blue wall, and arranged her hair. And while she 
 was thus standing the door opened and Underwood entered. 
 
 As he came forward Clio recognized a change in his face. 
 A new and baffling light shone in his deep-set eyes and illu- 
 mined every feature. He looked nervous — almost agitated — 
 and Clio drew back; frightened, she knew not why. Under- 
 wood had always had a strong influence over her and she had, 
 from the first, found it hard to resist the command of his 
 steadfast eyes. He had come to her now for her decision " 
 — of that she felt certain, and the decision must be given 
 while she had courage. Before the flame of love he had set 
 alight within her rushed upward and blinded her clear vision 
 with its brilliancy. 
 
 She took no notice of his outstretched hand but signed to 
 him to sit down. 
 
 "You told me to think it all over carefully," she said 
 breathlessly, "and I have done it. And — it's impossible, 
 couldn't do it — it would break my father's heart and I am 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 253 
 
 sure he would know — so he often used to say he would watch 
 over me when he passed away — when he left me." 
 
 Underwood started to speak eagerly, and then, with 
 obvious difficulty, restrained himself. He had suddenly 
 grown strangely white. He looked at her in silence for a 
 second or two. Then he said very gently : 
 
 " Will you tell me your thoughts — all of them. I should 
 like, beyond anything in the world, to understand them." 
 
 He rose from his chair and came and sat by her side on 
 the sofa. His manner was exquisitely gentle. Almost, so it 
 seemed to the unnerved woman, reverent. He laid one of 
 his strong hands on hers which were clasped together on 
 her lap. 
 
 "Tell me everything," he said softly. 
 
 Clio raised her eyes to his, and, one by one, great tears 
 rested on the long lashes and then stole down the dimpled 
 cheeks. 
 
 " I love you very much — but I cannot marry you like 
 that. I should never be able to get over the idea that my 
 father knew and that it hurt him. He was such a dear — and 
 all his ideas were so lovely and so unworldly, and — he held 
 to them, right to the very end. He would have thought it 
 dreadful — worse than dreadful, for he did not believe in 
 divorce. He believed that nothing but death could separate 
 people who had once been married, and — he loved me so 
 dearly — he was so proud of me. If I consented to that I 
 should be afraid to meet him again, and I do believe that 
 we shall see them again, those dear ones who have gone 
 away. Oh — I have thought and thought, and tried to see 
 things differently, but I cannot. All the lovely things dear 
 old Pappy used to say to me keep coming back and making 
 it impossible. I have put it off as long as I could — telling 
 you this, because it will be so lonely without you — and 
 because I'm a coward. And now I've said it, and you will 
 go away — for always ? You will not come back ? No ! " 
 She spoke passionately, in answer to a confused gesture from 
 
254 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 the man. " You must not come back — at least, not to me. 
 I couldn't bear it." 
 
 For answer he drew from his breast pocket a crushed 
 paper — a cablegram — and spread it out before her. 
 It reached me an hour ago," he said. 
 
 Clio brushed aside her tears and stared at the paper. 
 The words seemed to dance before her eyes, but gradually 
 they became clear. 
 
 '^Return at once, your wife is dying." 
 
 She read the words again and again. Then she looked at 
 him with bitter reproach in her eyes. 
 
 '*You knew this, and you allowed me to speak — like 
 that?" 
 
 **Yes! You must forgive me for I could not help it. 
 God is my witness that I could not help it. I had waited so 
 long — so patiently, just to hear you say you loved me." 
 
 He got up as he spoke and walked to the window: he 
 was shaken with emotion, and CHo's momentary anger fled. 
 She went to his side and touched his arm softly, 
 
 don't regret it. I am — glad you know the truth — at 
 last. But tell me of yourself? You are leaving — at once?" 
 
 ^*This evening. Within an hour." 
 
 His eyes were devouring her uplifted face, and he was 
 unconscious of the vehemence with which he had grasped 
 her hands. 
 
 ^^You remain here — in Rome — all the winter?" 
 She shook her head. 
 
 **Only until Christmas. Then I go to Paris. I shall 
 stay at the Continental." 
 He bent his head. 
 
 **You are not angry with me? You forgive me — 
 truly ? " 
 
 Their eyes met, and Underwood read in the face of the 
 woman he adored an agony of entreaty. In silence she was 
 begging for mercy — in an hour of weakness. He smiled 
 faintly, and pressed her hands before letting them go. 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 255 
 
 I want you to give me something," he said. little 
 bottle of the perfume you always use." 
 Perfume!" 
 "Yes." 
 
 " But it's nothing special — just a mix — and what in the 
 world do you want to do with it ? " 
 
 Clio had forgotten everything in her amazement. 
 Underwood laughed a Httle. 
 
 " Of course, it is a * mix.' Do you imagine that I take 
 you for a woman who would make her own out of a 
 catalogued perfume ? And why should I not want to spray 
 my person? Do you suppose that the female sex controls 
 the scent market ? " 
 
 CHo fell in with his mood. 
 
 "Of course — if you really want it? But men are better 
 without perfumes, and then — you ? It seems ridiculous." 
 
 "I shall be better with it. I have got used to it — it 
 seems sort of homey." 
 
 " Yes ? Well— ril fetch some." 
 
 When she returned to the room Underwood was standing 
 by a small table holding an empty photograph frame in 
 his hand. 
 
 " It's not up to much but it is you. I'll take it with me." 
 " You wish to do that?" 
 He nodded. 
 
 "Yes. This is no ordinary case=" Then, as the colour 
 crept up into her face, he added hastily, "I haven't seen 
 Tuke lately ? Where is he ? " 
 
 Since you are well up in Bible stories I refer you to 
 Miles Dering's * Genesis — something and something ' ! " 
 
 " So you have refused him ? " 
 
 She made no reply. 
 
 Underwood looked round the familiar room slowly as 
 though taking in all its details. Then he allowed his e)es to 
 rest on the face of the one woman who counted — for him. 
 How deliciously pretty she was? How utterly desirable. 
 
256 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 He felt that he must leave her at once if he wanted to keep 
 to a certain resolution made as he was approaching the hotel. 
 He had not loved his wife — for years she had been almost a 
 stranger to him : nevertheless, she was his wife, and — so far 
 as he knew — she was still alive. To leave without one real 
 caress was cruelly hard, but — it must be done. 
 
 ** I must go now," he said abruptly, will try to see 
 Dering on my way back to the hotel — if he should chance to 
 be in." 
 
 " You are going — now ? " 
 
 **Yes. And you must not come to the station. I wish 
 to carry with me a vision of you — here : in the midst of the 
 roses." 
 
 "You'll take great care of yourself?" 
 Yes ! And you ! How can I be sure that you will not 
 run all sorts of outrageous risks — driving out at night without 
 sufficient wraps and living on pastry cakes and candies ? I 
 think I must ask Dering to keep an eye on you. He's a big 
 fellow and you hold him in awe — just a little ! " 
 
 Poor Miles — 1 wonder how things will end for him ? 
 Very badly, I fear.'' 
 
 **You mean about the girl — Miss Hilliard?'' 
 
 Clio made a gesture of angry assent. 
 
 " She will marry Platoff." 
 I don't think so. Dering believes so firmly in his own 
 lucky star that he has made me believe in it too. Things 
 will come right for him — you will see." 
 
 " Never ! The girl is a solid mass of vanity and — I 
 really believe it, greed. She will marry Prince Platoff for 
 the position he can give her." 
 
 A few minutes later, when Clio was again alone, she flung 
 herself down on the broad sofa and covered her burning 
 face in her hands. 
 
 She was trying not to feel disgracefully happy ! 
 
 It seemed horrible — it actually was horrible, to rejoice 
 over such a happening, but she was very human — and very 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 257 
 
 sincerely in love. How beautiful was the world and how 
 entrancing was life — generally ! And then she remembered 
 she had promised to spend the evening with her friend 
 Bianca Delia Rocca and she was pleased. Bianca was always 
 sympathetic and — she cherished a sincere admiration for 
 James Underwood. 
 
 17 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 IT turned out that Dr Doyenbert was the only person at 
 the station to give Underwood a send-off. Miles 
 Dering was out when the American called at the studio and 
 no one knew where he was. Underwood was sorry to have 
 missed him but, after all, he had only wanted to say au revoir. 
 
 He chanced on the doctor, in the Piazza Farnese, when 
 turning out of the Via Giulia, and the latter volunteered to 
 see him off in the train. 
 
 The two men were strangely silent during that last half- 
 hour. Underwood was thoughtful and obviously unnerved : 
 Doyenbert was in a sullen, savage temper. 
 
 They did not exchange more than half a dozen words on 
 the way to the station, but when Underwood was settled down 
 in the railway carriage the doctor looked at him sharply. 
 You are returning — before long." 
 "Not here. I shall be in Paris immediately after 
 Christmas.'' 
 
 **Yes? Then we shall meet. I suppose, like all good 
 Americans, the Express Office is your home address in 
 Paris ? " 
 
 The other nodded, smiling slightly. 
 
 "Well — I wish you a good voyage and I shall be glad to 
 see you happy — when you return." 
 
 "I am quite sure you mean that! And — Doyenbert, 
 shall you be seeing Dering within the next day or two ? If 
 so will you tell him I tried to find him before I left and that 
 I send him the best of good wishes ? " 
 
 Doyenbert's brow darkened. 
 
 " I shall see him to-night. I am going to the studio 
 after a dinner-party. Yes, I will give him your messages, but 
 
 258 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 259 
 
 I am pretty sure good wishes will not do him much good 
 now. He is in for a rough time." 
 " You mean— that girl ? " 
 
 A muttered oath passed the critic's compressed lips. 
 
 "Yes. She is going to marry Platoff.'' 
 
 "But you cannot believe that? It is impossible. Even 
 if Platoff wishes it, and the girl is willing, Madame de Brissac 
 would never consent." 
 
 "You think not? You fail to recognize the wheels 
 within the wheels ? The beast is rich. Rich enough to buy 
 Miss Hilliard's consent and Madame's acquiescence." 
 
 " But the idea is horrible ! And how can Bering be so 
 blind ? " 
 
 " He is blind because he is in love and because he is the 
 most obstinate beggar on earth : almost as obstinate as Jack 
 Fitz used to be. He believes himself to be an extraordinary 
 judge of character, and I grant you he has proved himself 
 right a good many times, but now comes the debacle. The 
 whole affair is disgusting, and if one wanted further proof of 
 the tricks played by that old vaurien, Nature, one has it in 
 the knowledge that such a man as Miles Bering could fall in 
 love with Weston Hilliard's daughter : with the cousin of 
 such a woman as Madame de Brissac — with a jeune fille who 
 finds it natural to marry the man who has notoriously been 
 the cher ami of her chaperone ! " 
 
 "But all the chances are that she knows nothing o 
 that. Yes — I am serious." He was answering a sneering 
 smile. "Outsiders always see most of the game, and I 
 shouldn't mind wagering a good sum that the girl hasn't 
 an idea of the true position. And it may quite well be 
 that we are all wronging her? You yourself admit that 
 Bering is a wonderful judge of character." 
 
 "Bid you ever know a man who could correctly judge 
 the character of the woman he loved ? " 
 
 "Yes— I think so." 
 
 Underwood's voice was drowned in the bustle of a train 
 
26o A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 just about to start. He stood up and leaned out of the 
 window. 
 
 " You are going to tell him ? " he called out. Doyenbert 
 nodded. 
 
 To-night!" 
 
 It was midnight when the critic reached the studio. 
 Bering was expecting him and had ordered a light supper 
 to be prepared. 
 
 The painter was excited and in high spirits. His mind 
 was made up. Come what might he meant to claim his 
 own on the morrow. He knew that the girl of his heart 
 was in a capricious frame of mind, and he anticipated that 
 she would make difficulties, but he had the power to 
 dominate her and he meant to do it. Later on they could 
 reconcile their differences of thought and opinion — or agree 
 to leave them unreconciled, but the thing that counted now 
 was the meeting of lips. 
 
 He was prepared to make her acknowledge her love — 
 against her will or with it. She must confess that she 
 belonged to him by all the rights : mutual love, mutual 
 longing, understanding, perfect faith. She was not yet 
 prepared to submit — that he knew, but he was tired of 
 waiting, and besides — there were rocks ahead and it was 
 his place to steer her clear of them. 
 
 He had been furious at the gossip which had connected 
 her name with that of Ivan Apraxine but he had never for 
 a moment doubted her. She was spoiled and exceedingly 
 wilful. It was enough for her to know that something was 
 likely to " shock someone to make her immediately want 
 to do it. She was lovely and attractive and circumstances 
 had thrown her in unsuitable, it might be perilous, sur- 
 roundings. Her father was restless and shifty as the sands 
 of the sea, and her cousin — ? It made Bering feel savage 
 to think that his peerless one, his darling, should be under 
 the care of such a woman as Madame de Brissac. He 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 261 
 
 blamed himself for having hesitated a single moment 
 when once he realized that he had the power to win the 
 ideal of his dreams. His motto ought to have been win 
 in haste and woo at leisure. She was high-spirited and 
 restive : she did not wish to be controlled — even by him, 
 but she would kiss the hand of her master, when the master 
 had become her willing slave. 
 
 As he sat and waited for the doctor, alone in the big 
 studio, his pulses throbbed with triumph and excitement, 
 and when Doyenbert at last came in, the dark mood still 
 heavy upon him, the painter chaffed him freely and accepted 
 with obvious delight the fierce retorts which followed. But 
 he became serious when the critic spoke of Underwood's 
 sudden departure — and its cause. He was unfeignedly 
 glad that things were likely to become possible for the 
 two people he liked so well, but it seemed in rank bad 
 taste to openly rejoice — as Doyenbert was rejoicing — over 
 the death of a woman. He said something of this and the 
 doctor turned on him savagely. 
 
 " I have had a surfeit of you sentimentalists. You 
 upset my digestion. This woman. Underwood's wife, was 
 very much in the way, and why should we think it necessary 
 to wipe our eyes when we hear that she is being removed ? 
 Mrs Waring is a nice little woman. Underwood is a decent 
 fellow, and they are in love with each other. Is it not 
 better that they should be free to marry? I am not a 
 believer in the union libre^ even when it is veiled in supposed 
 * friendship.' 
 
 That's not fair and you oughtn't to have said it. 
 There would never have been a question of union litre 
 in this case." 
 
 Doyenbert shrugged his shoulders. His thin lips curled 
 in an evil smile. 
 
 "You think not, but then you are a sickly sentimentahst. 
 You deal with ideas and ideals. You deUberately shut 
 your eyes to the realities of Hfe. When a man loves a 
 
262 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 woman he takes possession of her : with the blessing of a 
 Priest or without it." 
 
 " You loved my mother ! " 
 
 Doyenbert sprang to his feet and rushed at the speaker, 
 his hands clenched and his features working with rage. 
 For a moment Dering thought he was going to strike him. 
 The doctor pulled up and glared at him for a minute, in 
 silence : then he sank back into his chair, leaned his elbow 
 on the table and shaded his eyes. 
 Who told you that?" 
 
 " Uncle Jack — when he was dying. He spoke a great 
 deal of you and of your affection for me, and when I suggested 
 that it would be too much to expect such a busy man to 
 bother himself about my affairs he said — * He loved your 
 mother. He has never forgotten her.'" 
 
 " Never I " 
 
 The single word was spoken with violent emotion and 
 Dering drew back : he was already regretting his hasty betrayal 
 of knowledge which had always seemed to him sacred. 
 
 For a long time there was silence : it was broken at last 
 by the doctor. 
 
 " It is quite true. I loved her — and I have never 
 forgotten her. It was no ordinary love. It was some- 
 thing more like adoration and reverence for something far 
 removed from the passions and follies of this world." 
 
 "And yet you insistently deny the reality of deathless 
 love?" 
 
 Dering was smiling a little but no answering smile came 
 to the doctor's lips. 
 
 '*I do not deny that, here and there, men and women 
 may be found who are capable of a grande passion — but 
 they are very rare. So rare that one is justified in denying 
 their existence." 
 
 " I'm sure you're wrong. I believe that almost every man, 
 every woman too, is capable of an absorbing love — which 
 cannot change. When mate calls to mate there is no 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 263 
 
 hesitation : a flutter of wings and the world is forgotten : 
 the two have become one." 
 
 "You believe that? Yes — I know you do unfortunately/' 
 He paused and leaned back, his eyes shut. When he opened 
 them the fire of angry irritation had gone : he looked tired 
 and sad. "You have taken me back to the past/' he said, 
 "and I have a right to feel angry — but I do not. You are 
 htr son and that gives you many privileges. I think she 
 cared for me, but I never knew — really. She was pure as the 
 Blessed Virgin and just as far removed from ordinary human 
 beings, or so it seemed to me. And it was part of her sweet 
 belief that her duty lay in giving faith for unfaith. Jack 
 Fitzgerald hated your father — and I — " he paused, and the 
 Hnes on his sensitive face grew hard. " Never mind, all that 
 is past. We are in the present now and it is with the 
 present we must deal. If it were in me to love anyone, now, 
 I think I should love you. At anyrate I wish you well : I 
 wish to promote your happiness. A serious hurt to you would 
 be a hurt to me, and — I want to warn you." 
 
 " Against what ? " 
 
 "Against the girl you love. Bering, she is un- 
 worthy." 
 
 " It's a lie ! " 
 
 The veins stood out on the painter's forehead and he rose 
 suddenly to his feet. 
 
 " It is true. She is going to marry Platoff." 
 
 He laughed aloud, and in the laughter there was no bitter- 
 ness : the idea was too utterly absurd. 
 
 " I give you my word of honour, it is true. To-night, at 
 dinner. Prince Alexis Zouroff spoke of it — openly. He said 
 that Platoff felt the need of an heir and that he had decided 
 to marry the cousin of his old friend the Comtesse de 
 Brissac." 
 
 »tThe d d scoundrel." 
 
 Bering walked quickly to one of the large windows and 
 
264 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 threw it open : he felt suffocated. Doyenbert watched him in 
 silence, then he said very quietly : 
 
 It is a beastly affair, but — it has got to be faced. You 
 have never spoken very much about this girl but I know you 
 love her, and I also know that you have made a big mistake 
 in your judgment of her character. She is very beautiful — no 
 one can deny that, but she is corrupt and, already, young girl 
 though she is, vitiated. Yes — you must hear me out," for 
 Bering had approached with fury depicted on every line of 
 his face, *'you w^/^/ have patience. When I have said what 
 I came here to say, you can turn me out if you please, but I 
 am determined that you shall know the truth. Violet Hilliard 
 is vitiated and utterly unworthy of your love. She is already 
 a slave of the World, and of the World at its worst. We 
 spoke in semi-jest, the other day, of the ^jeune fille de demain^^ 
 but the most emancipated jeune fille might well draw back 
 from things which appear quite natural and right to Miss 
 Hilliard. She is prepared — of that there is not a shadow 
 of doubt — to marry Platoff though she knows he is the 
 cher ami of her cousin, though she knows that Madame 
 de Brissac's consent has been bought. She is prepared 
 to sell herself as shamelessly as any woman of the half 
 world : far more shamelessly, for many a member of the 
 * lost sisterhood ' would scorn to do what she is doing. She 
 is her father's daughter — ready to sacrifice everything for 
 money, but still worse — she is rapidly becoming a slave to the 
 Green Fairy. Yes — this girl you want to marry is rapidly 
 becoming a slave to absinthe and she is said to be one of the 
 ' elect ' y one of those for whom the Green Fairy has a special 
 affection — one of those in whom she can work wonders. To- 
 night, at dinner, Alexis Zouroff made a brutal jest about * the 
 dreams of a jeune fille.^ He said openly that Apraxine had 
 been made the confidant of Miss Hilliard's visions — when 
 under the spell of absinthe. If you had heard him^ — if you 
 had heard his word picture of her future — of the future of the 
 Platoff mSnage^ you would have had a rough awakening. 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 265 
 
 Zouroff is a man of the world and he does not make any 
 special pretension of morality but even he is of opinion that 
 the whole affair is disgusting." 
 
 He pulled up suddenly and looked hard at the man who 
 had taken a chair at the opposite side of the table. Dering 
 was deathly pale and there was a flame of fury in his dark 
 eyes that brought sudden terror to the watcher — notably a 
 brave man. Instinctively Doyenbert drew back : Dering 
 smiled. 
 
 " You think I'm going to try to kill you," he said slowly, 
 "but you needn't be afraid — I am not concerned withj^?^." 
 " You mean — ? " 
 
 *'That I shall learn the truth, first, and then — ?" 
 
 **Then— 
 
 "I shall act." 
 
 Again the two men looked at each other in silence. It 
 seemed to Doyenbert that the face he knew so well had 
 suddenly changed beyond possibility of recognition. The 
 lines were almost brutal in their rigid sternness and there was 
 that in the dark eyes which might well make a man, even a 
 brave one, pause. Accustomed to studying the workings of 
 the mind through the unconscious workings of the body he 
 let his keen eyes slowly wander from the flaming eyes to the 
 rigid body, down to the hands, which were resting on the 
 table. He smothered an exclamation. Dering's left hand 
 had closed over a metal vase which held a single rose. The 
 vase was crushed between his fingers — flat and shapeless. He 
 looked away hastily. 
 
 Dering ! " The raucous voice sounded strangely soft. 
 " Miles — my dear boy, listen to reason. You have made a 
 mistake but — we are all liable to that. You have not known 
 this girl very long — you will get over it. And besides — " 
 he hastened to speak quickly before an interruption could 
 come, there is Princess Borizofi"! Of course I have no 
 right to try to force your confidence but we have all seen how 
 things vvere going in that direction — and she is really splendid. 
 
266 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 I used not to like her, but I have always recognized 
 her extraordinary beauty — and charm. And certainly 
 she—" 
 
 " Stop I Bering's voice was hoarse and jarring. He 
 seemed hardly able to control himself. 
 Doyenbert stared at him. 
 
 " You object to the name of the Princess being — " 
 
 ** I object to everything you have said — and to your 
 manner of saying it. Let us finish the matter right here — 
 once and for ever. I have no doubt that your intention is 
 good — as you understand good, but unless you want our 
 friendship — even our acquaintance — to come to an abrupt 
 end you must never again speak in my presence as you have 
 just done — of Miss Hilliard. You have no right to judge her. 
 No man has a right to judge any woman. We are all human 
 creatures, with human possibilities, and who gave you, or any 
 other man, the right to say this woman, or that, is * unworthy '? 
 You set up a very high standard of perfection, but suppose 
 that any woman demanded of you but the tenth part of that 
 perfection what would you have to offer? I don't believe 
 that what you have stated is true, but if I absolutely knew it 
 to be true — what then ? All that concerns me is that I love 
 Miss Hilliard and that I believe she loves me. All that 
 concerns me is that I believe her to be, at heart, as pure and 
 as sweet as was my own mother ! " 
 
 "You dare to compare her — that girl — with — 
 With my mother ? Yes ! " 
 
 The two men stood face to face and each countenance 
 was alight with a passion of excitement. 
 
 There was a long silence. Then Doyenbert held out his 
 hand. 
 
 ''Take it, or leave it," he said. "I am your friend: I 
 shall always remain your friend. Probably you will not 
 believe me, but it is true that I would give my right hand, and 
 willingly, to know that your estimate of this girl is the true 
 one. You are an obstinate devil, and you must take your 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 267 
 
 own way, but for once I borrow from the priests and say — 
 * God bless you/ " 
 
 He was gone before Bering could reply and for quite a 
 long time the painter remained motionless, looking at the 
 open door. Then he crossed the room, sat down by a massive 
 ebony table and began to write. 
 
 Page after page of the square letter paper he always used 
 was filled and still he seemed unable to stop. 
 
 The sluice-gates were up and his passionate love was 
 flowing out towards the girl he adored. Nothing was held 
 back — nothing was veiled. The call of Love was vehement — 
 overwhelming in its incoherent eloquence. 
 
 When the letter was finished he read it over — and smiled. 
 But he altered nothing. 
 
 He sealed it up and directed the envelope — it was to be 
 delivered the first thing that morning — for dawn was already 
 making ready to break. 
 
 Then he went to the open window and leaned out. Rain 
 was falling, softly, like an ashen veil. The world seemed 
 enveloped in mist — mysterious and evasive. Before him, on 
 the other side of the sleepless river, rose the Janiculum Hill — 
 black and sombre against a threatening sky. There was a 
 great stillness in which he seemed to hear the throbbings of 
 his heart. 
 
 He leaned out still further and let the soft rain beat 
 against his face ; his whole being seemed on fire. 
 
 He thought of Violet — of her surroundings — of her tempta- 
 tions, and he loathed himself. What a coward he had been ! 
 And what a fool ! He knew — no one better — the dangers 
 that must ever surround such a temperament as hers. He 
 knew — no one better — the possibilities — waking and sleeping 
 — of her nature. And yet he had hesitated. 
 
 A wild storm of impatience suddenly possessed him and 
 it seemed impossible to wait — even a few hours longer. 
 
 He would win her — and woo her ! He knew it must be 
 like that. The beasts of prey were prowling round the dainty 
 
268 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 morsel and he must not wait a moment longer: he must 
 take possession of her — with her consent or without it ! 
 
 He ran his fingers through his damp hair as he turned 
 back to the room. He was too excited to sleep — work was 
 out of the question. After a moment's hesitation he said a 
 few words to Chu and, taking up a soft grey felt hat, he 
 passed down the stone steps and out into the silent streets. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 ALL that day Miles Dering waited for Violet : in his 
 studio consumed by impatience. 
 In the early morning Chu had taken the letter to the 
 Hotel Bristol and at mid-day an answer had come : just four 
 words — " Wait for me. — Violet." 
 And he waited. 
 
 Several times his sister Jessica came in and talked to him 
 as though nothing were the matter, but she knew : or at least 
 she guessed. And her thoughts were bitter, for a rumour of 
 the Platoff marriage had reached her and she feared — she 
 scarcely knew what. She realized, better than any other 
 living being, the violence of her brother's temperament. She 
 knew something of his possibilities and very much of his 
 depth of feeling. As the hours crept on — and still the impatient 
 steps — up and down, up and down, came from the big studio she 
 became paralyzed with fear and she went out. At first she did 
 not know where she wanted to go or what she wanted to do — 
 except to escape from her fears and from the sound of those 
 restless steps. But then her brain cleared and she saw her 
 way. She drove direct to the Piazza Santa Maria Maggiore 
 and entered the wonderful old church — one of the oldest in 
 Rome and dedicated to the Madonna. It was the hour of 
 Vespers, and as she knelt in a secluded corner the setting sun 
 cast rays of brilliant gold on the mosaics in the tribune and 
 on the marble pavements. The light in the church was soft 
 and dim, and the dark aisles seemed filled with a mist of 
 incense. A heavenly calm reigned and Jessica's tears fell 
 fast as she knelt, with bowed head and trembling limbs. She 
 was praying, with all the fervour of a fanatic, for the happiness 
 of her idol : of the brother she adored. 
 
 269 
 
270 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 And as she prayed she beat softly upon her breast, for the 
 words — "Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa rushed 
 to her lips ! She had sinned, most grievously, against God — 
 and against man. She had been wanting in Faith, and in 
 Hope and — this most of all — in Charity. She had allowed 
 her dislike for Violet Hilliard to amount to something like 
 hatred : she had probably been very unjust to her. And 
 what had been the chief cause of her dislike ? Had it not 
 been jealousy ? 
 
 The tears fell faster and faster and she made no effort 
 to check them. She had been wrong; bitterly, resolutely, 
 unjust. She remembered how her old friend Miss Hilliard 
 had written of her niece. How she had said '*the girl is 
 foolish and inclined to be worldly, but she has a heart : au 
 fond^ her nature is a fine one." She had read the words and 
 had scoffed at them. Worse than that— far worse, she had 
 purposely refrained from showing her brother that particular 
 letter. She had, from time to time, said things against Violet 
 — she had never even given her the benefit of the doubt. 
 
 It seemed to Jessica Hilliard that then, in the dim, silent 
 church she realized for the first time the full grandeur of 
 ^* Uncle Jack's '' philosophy — and of her brother's. For the 
 first time she seemed to understand all that was embraced in 
 their unwavering belief in the ultimate triumph of good : in 
 the power of the Divine qualities which are the birthright of 
 humanity but which so often droop and wither for want of 
 the water of a kindly, helpful word. 
 
 She thought of Miles and of his splendid character. So 
 simple and yet, in a way, so complicated. She thought of his 
 firm adherence to their uncle's motto — Live and Help Live." 
 That was what he did. Just that and nothing more. And 
 for that they called him "a crank." They mocked at him — 
 when they dared. 
 
 Miles was no saint — that she knew. He was a very 
 human man but he was no coward. Of the World he had 
 no fear. It had not the power to make him do a mean 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 271 
 
 action. He had many faults but he was every inch a man : 
 with a true man's inborn desire to help the weak. 
 
 He was splendid : the most perfect brother woman ever had ! 
 She remembered some words, spoken carelessly by Mrs 
 Waring. 
 
 " My dear girl — what a lover that big brother of yours will 
 make, one of these fine days ! And what a husband ! " 
 
 The shadows were falling fast and still she knelt. Still 
 she prayed. 
 
 And, floating on the wings of twilight, there came Peace. 
 
 All day long Bering waited. Wildly impatient : feverishly 
 anxious : but always waiting. 
 
 Again and again, through that interminable day, he had 
 determined to go to the Hotel Bristol and to demand an 
 interview with Violet. 
 
 He knew almost to a certainty that it would be denied 
 him. That some rude and contemptuous message would be 
 sent him by the Comtesse. Nevertheless he felt that it 
 savoured of the coward to stay at home and await events. It 
 was not because he wished to avoid possible insolence on the 
 part of the Comtesse de Brissac that he hesitated. Nothing 
 would have given him greater pleasure than to have had it 
 out " with her ! But he had an overwhelming horror of 
 seeing the girl of his heart in those surroundings. More 
 especially on the occasion of the meeting which would be — 
 must be — the most important of their life. 
 
 Morning had given place to noon and noon to shadowy 
 evening before any relief came for his feverish impatience. 
 And then a messenger delivered a tiny note — again only a 
 few words : — " I shall be with you at 9.30. — Violet." 
 
 Bering was amazed. 
 
 It was not that he had any fear of the convenances^ for his 
 sister would be in the house : and besides, he knew that the 
 elder Miss Hilliard — whose influence was all-powerful, when 
 she cared to use it — would have trusted her niece to his care 
 
272 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 at any hour of the day or night. But he was absolutely 
 amazed at the hour named — 9.30 at night? It seemed 
 extraordinary and inexplicable. How could Violet get away 
 from the Comtesse at that hour without arousing unpleasant 
 comment ? 
 
 His sister came in and talked as though nothing unusual 
 was in the air. She even — with difficulty — mentioned Violet's 
 name and showed no surprise when her brother said that 
 she was coming to the studio that evening. " Probably she 
 will be able to give us some news of her aunt/' Jessica said. 
 " I had a letter from Miss Hilliard this morning and she says 
 she intends leaving Florence to-morrow and coming down 
 here, to spend a week or ten days with me — with us, that is to 
 say.'' 
 
 Bering received the news with some show of interest but 
 it was so evident that his thoughts were completely occu- 
 pied that Jessica soon made an excuse to leave him 
 alone. 
 
 At the door of the big studio she turned and looked back 
 at him. 
 
 He was standing in his favourite corner, near an open 
 window, and she thought she had never seen him look so 
 handsome — so supremely distinguished. He was leaning on 
 the window-sill and his dark face was in profile, silhouetted 
 against the gathering shadows of night. He looked like a 
 Roman athlete of ancient days — in modern clothes and 
 surroundings ! The pose of his perfectly-balanced figure was 
 tense : the lines of jaw and mouth fixed to the point of 
 sternness. He was unconscious of her presence — Jessica 
 knew that : and so she lingered a second or two and watched 
 him. 
 
 And some words spoken by her uncle on his death-bed 
 came back to her : I am proud of my boy — too proud 
 perhaps. But I am afraid for him. Desperately afraid. If 
 ever there comes for him a real parting of the ways there 
 will be great danger. He is naturally violent. Life may hew 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 273 
 
 him into something like a god or — it may make of him a 
 devil." 
 
 Night had fallen. With noiseless movements the little 
 Jap servant, Chu, had arranged some shaded lamps on the 
 studio tables. He had omitted to light the great lamp which 
 hung from the ceiling in the centre of the room and which 
 was capable of flooding every corner of it with vivid white 
 light. It is possible that he had received instructions from 
 Jessica but more probable that his own keen intuition had 
 supplied the key to his Master's mood ! 
 
 Deftly he arranged the furniture and put together some 
 loose sketches which lay on a chair. Then — with a stolen 
 glance at the tall figure by the window — he brought in two 
 branches of exquisite white roses and laid them on one of the 
 tables. He who loved beautiful flowers only one degree less 
 thm he loved his Master made no attempt to put the roses in 
 water. He laid them down softly and with lingering touch 
 as one might lay a cluster of flowers on an altar. Then he 
 looked up suddenly, as though listening, and a moment later 
 he was gone. 
 
 Dering turned round and his eyes fell upon the roses. 
 He took a step or two forward and bent over them. At the 
 same moment the door at the end of the studio opened softly 
 and someone entered — a tall, slender woman enveloped in a 
 long wrap of velvet and fur which completely disguised her, 
 for a picturesque hood of velvet was drawn over the head and 
 far down on the face. 
 
 A stifled cry of fond welcome burst from Bering's lips as 
 
 he rushed forward and caught her hands. Violet looked up 
 
 at him and the hood fell back. His eyes — imperious, 
 
 worshipful, questioned hers, but the answer was never spoken 
 
 — in words. A divine flush rose to her cheeks and her bare 
 
 white arms crept up and up, until they encircled his neck 
 
 and drew down his head. 
 
 love you — " she whispered. "I love — you — " But 
 18 
 
274 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 the words were strangled by the vehemence of that first 
 kiss. 
 
 For Bering time ceased to exist. How long he held her 
 there — clasped close to his wildly beating heart — he knew 
 not. 
 
 Nor what he said. 
 
 Words of wild idolatry broke from him — only to be lost in 
 the ecstasy of a renewed embrace. He was not conscious of 
 anything save the glorious fact that he held in his arms, in his 
 close embrace, the idol of his dreams : his darling — his 
 wife. 
 
 The lightly slumbering fires of a violent nature flamed up 
 and entered into possession of their kingdom. He was mad 
 with joy and triumph. 
 
 And the warmth of his caresses — the fire of his burning 
 words made the girl feel that her whole being was aflame. 
 She turned very white and her breath came and went unevenly. 
 In a second Bering regained control of himself and, with 
 words of self-condemnation, carried her to an old-fashioned 
 sofa, wide and low, which stood against the wall at one end 
 of the room. With delicious tenderness he laid her back 
 against the cushions and knelt by her side. 
 
 *'What a brute I am!'' he said penitently. "A poor, 
 little slender girl like you runs a good chance of being 
 crushed to death — at close quarters with me 1 " He was 
 smiling and though the words expressed penitence his dark 
 eyes were blazing with triumph. The rose-flush crept back 
 into her exquisite cheeks and she drew a long breath. 
 
 "How splendid you are," she whispered, **and how 
 strong ! I almost thought you were going to kill me — just 
 then!" 
 
 He laid her bare arms round his neck as he knelt beside 
 
 her. 
 
 **To kiss you 'till one killed you' — do you remember? 
 Yes — I could do it easily 1 " 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 275 
 
 She looked straight into his eyes and then her white lids 
 
 fell. 
 
 **Yes — I know. You could! That's why you are so 
 glorious — that's why I love you, with all my heart and soul ! " 
 There was something in her voice — some vibrating tone, 
 hitherto unrealized, that startled him. He looked at her. 
 And as his adoring eyes wandered over her lovely face, flushed 
 and quivering with excitement — over the soft curves of her 
 figure, shown to extraordinary advantage in bewildering 
 draperies of silken muslins, ivory-tinted and laden with 
 crystal embroideries — he felt it almost impossible to 
 force back the mad desire to crush her in his arms once 
 more and to cover her with burning kisses. A sea of blood 
 seemed flowing before his eyes, and for a single moment he 
 was absolutely motionless ; rigid as a statue. Then he softly 
 drew her into his arms. 
 
 *' Sweetheart — my wife — you are sure? You love me like 
 that — heart and soul — and beautiful body ? You are all mine ? '' 
 
 He was trembling with suppressed emotion and uncon- 
 sciously he tangled his fingers in the golden meshes of her 
 shining hair. Then, when he realized what he had done, he 
 smiled tenderly and kissed the disturbed curl. 
 
 I'm a rough brute — am I not, sweetheart? Aren't you 
 afraid to trust your life into my keeping ? " 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 A curious change had suddenly come to her — she was 
 desperately afraid. She had come to the studio in a state of 
 intense excitement: almost of exaltation. The way had 
 seemed very clear and the fierce passion of that first embrace 
 — that first kiss — had made it seem still clearer. For the 
 first time in her life she had fully realized the physical strength 
 and physical passions of the man she loved. And the 
 realization had made her triumphant. He was superb — he 
 was delicious — he was masterful — this man who adored her : 
 and he was hers I By his love for her she could lead him — 
 anywhere ! 
 
276 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 In those first moments she had felt certain : absolutely 
 certain. 
 
 But now? 
 
 Had the old fear of his dominance crept in to paralyse 
 her? 
 
 Why was it that she found it so difficult — almost impossible — 
 to intrench herself with a supreme belief in her own charm — 
 for him ? She was very pale but the pallor only added to her 
 beauty. Dering devoured her face with worshipful eyes. 
 With caressing fingers he touched the diamonds in her little 
 pink-tipped ears and the pearls that lay against her throat. 
 
 Is it all for me — this gorgeous attire ? — ^ Her hair was as 
 a fleece of gold — each separate hair as a thread of fine gold — 
 her body was as white ivory ! ' I think that lovely little 
 mermaid must have looked very like you — even the tail ! " 
 He laughed softly as he looked down at the trailing draperies 
 that wound themselves sinuously about the girl's slender form. 
 
 Yes ! * Silver and pearl ' — the resemblance is perfect ! And 
 all for me ! " His arms closed round her but she drew back. 
 
 ^0— phase — Miles." She smiled as she spoke his name 
 softly and a tinge of colour rose to the bronzed face. 
 
 *'Myown — " he murmured adoringly: but still she held 
 back. 
 
 Please come and sit beside me — and let us be very sen- 
 sible — just for a minute or two. There is something I want 
 to say and you must promise to listen — right to the very end ? 
 And not to interrupt? Really — really it's very important 
 and — it's not very easy — only I must say it. Everything 
 depends on it — all our happiness — all our future ! " 
 
 The dark brows shot up in pretended amazement. 
 
 " Serious as all that ? " he said as he rose from his knees 
 and sat beside her — very close. 
 
 She moved away, just an inch or two. 
 
 " Yes — truly. Quite serious. And please let us be very 
 sensible." 
 
 She tried to push aside the encircling arms but in vain. 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 " I am sensible ! And Fm prepared to sit here and listen 
 — for hours ! " 
 
 She looked at him ; and something in the perfect happi- 
 ness, the absolute confidence, of his passionate eyes filled her 
 with sudden terror. 
 
 She paused : then went on desperately. 
 
 " I love you — with all my heart and soul — with all that's 
 best in me. When I am with you I want to see things just 
 as you see them. I want to try and help people — like the 
 *poor dears.' When I am with you all that's best in me 
 comes out — or it tries to ; everything seems different — my 
 thoughts and ambitions and wishes — everything. I am certain 
 you are my good angel — you — are — "/ 
 
 The strong arms had tightened their hold and her lips 
 were in the prison of a passionate kiss. She struggled to get 
 free. 
 
 " Miles— you promised ! " 
 
 Her breath came and went quickly and Dering looked 
 properly penitent. 
 
 I am ' sensible,' " he whispered as he brushed his lips 
 against her bare white shoulder. Yes — really I'll be awfully 
 well behaved." 
 
 Again there was silence. A terrible struggle was taking 
 place within her : she felt torn to pieces, but she did not 
 hesitate — really. A future — exquisite, deliriously happy, even 
 "good" — if one realized the real meaning of the word — 
 stretched itself out before her. It was within her grasp — if 
 only she could make him understand : if only he would see — 
 for once — with her eyes. Something of the exaltation which 
 had filled her when she entered the studio returned. It 
 seemeci*^ to her that she was fighting for the right. Fighting 
 for the good of her own soul — as she understood "good." 
 He had very strong views, very firm convictions but — were 
 they necessarily right, for everybody ? Was it not the duty 
 of every living soul to fight for its individual freedom ? For 
 its individual rights ? And she knew herself — her own 
 
278 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 nature. She knew herself better than he could ever know 
 her. 
 
 Without looking at Bering she went on, and one little 
 white hand crept softly into the warm embrace of the restless 
 brown fingers. 
 
 " You have the power to bring out all that is worth any- 
 thing in me. 1 want you to be near me — always. I want to 
 feel sure that I can go to you for help — for advice — for love. 
 I want to be able to help you — in all these wonderful things 
 you do for people. I want you to be my Guardian Angel — 
 always : and to try to find the angel in me — if such a thing 
 really exists. I want to give you my love — my faith — my 
 perfect belief — you will be — you must be my husband before 
 God but— 
 
 **'But'?" 
 
 Bering caught her to him with a fierce gesture of posses- 
 sion and with one hand he raised her face so that their eyes 
 met. 
 
 * Your husband — before God — but — ' What do you mean 
 by that ? What are you trying to say to me ? 
 
 His vibrating voice was hoarse with emotion and he stared 
 at her as though trying to drag out the secrets of her brain. 
 Violet trembled violently and great tears welled up into her 
 eyes. With a passionate gesture she threw her arms round 
 his neck and kissed him on the mouth. 
 
 I love you — I worship you but I cannot do without 
 money — I cannot — I cannot. You don't know what my life 
 has been — what I have suffered from want of money. What 
 humiliations — what degradations. You don't know — you 
 never could understand, for our natures are absolutely 
 different — our tastes — everything. Some people can rise to 
 the level of poverty — and glory in it, but I am not one of 
 those. It would be impossible for me to be content to do 
 without things — to see other women enjoying the luxury I 
 have wanted — all my life. You may despise me — I'm afraid 
 you will despise me, but I am telling you all that is in my 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 279 
 
 heart I want to do what is right — for me. I want to be 
 true to what is best in me — I want to have a chance. And 
 you can give it to me. You — and you only — can help me. 
 Let religious people say what they may it is true that a great 
 love sanctifies everything — justifies everything. And I love 
 you — with all my heart and soul : I shall always love you — 
 and you only/' 
 
 You love me—* but'?" 
 There was something terrible in the level tones. Bering 
 was holding himself in leash : he could hardly trust himself 
 to speak. 
 
 Suddenly he rose to his feet and drew the girl up. 
 Say it — ! " he whispered hoarsely. " Say what you have 
 to say — now,'^^ 
 
 ** I have promised to marry Prince Platoff.'' 
 
 The words seemed forced from her. She was hardly con- 
 scious of having spoken them. 
 
 There was silence. Bering's grasp tightened on her 
 shoulders — tightened until she had to bite her lips to sup- 
 press a cry of pain. Then his long, sinuous fingers stole up 
 to her throat. 
 
 You came here — to tell me that ? " 
 
 That — and other things. Oh — Miles ! Have pity. 
 You frighten me." 
 
 He stared down, right into her eyes and it seemed to her 
 that his face was that of a demon. The veins on his forehead 
 stood out like cords and the light of madness was in his eyes. 
 She believed he was going to kill her — the pressure of his 
 steel-like fingers on her throat was already depriving her of 
 breath. She was beside herself with terror. 
 Have pity — let me go — " 
 
 The cry was convulsive, gasping : and as he heard it, 
 Bering smiled strangely. He loosed his fingers and put her 
 away from him. 
 
 " Yes — ril let you go — in the fullest sense of the words. 
 If I had believed, just then, that what you called your 'better 
 
28o A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 self existed I would have killed you — there where you stand, 
 but you aren't worth it. You are a fit mate for Prince 
 Platoff— go to him.'' 
 
 With a gesture of contempt he turned away and crossed 
 the room. The great window was still open and he leaned 
 out. In that moment the burning flames of hell seemed to 
 envelope him. 
 
 The minutes stole by and there was silence in the studio. 
 
 Violet Hilliard had staggered back to the sofa and was 
 sitting huddled up against the cushions — her slender frame 
 shaken with violent sobs. 
 
 Five minutes — perhaps ten — went by. Then Bering 
 turned and looked at the figure on the sofa. He was very 
 pale but a mask had fallen on his features : they expressed 
 nothing- Only the dark eyes were alive and ablaze with a 
 fury of contempt. He crossed the room and stood before the 
 sobbing girl. 
 
 I think you are going to some entertainment?" he said 
 quietly. I judge so from your dress. You had better try to 
 control yourself." 
 
 Violet looked up. The violent fit of weeping had ravaged 
 her face but she was still lovely. 
 
 Miles ! Listen to me — for God's sake listen.'' 
 I am listening but don't you think we had better leave 
 the name of the Almighty out of the matter? It cannot be 
 that you suppose He has arranged your marriage with Prince 
 Platoff?" 
 
 She was trembling pitifully as she rose and tried to steady 
 herself against the back of a chair. 
 
 How cruel you are — and how unjust. I tried — yes, 
 I did try to tell you the whole truth — to make you 
 understand." 
 
 ** You have made me understand." 
 
 **No!" 
 
 "What? Something still remains? Something you have 
 left unexplained? What is it? You have announced the 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 281 
 
 play — and allotted the parts. Yeu have arranged for the 
 production of a Great Marriage, with a wealthy husband — a 
 poor lover, who is to share in the spoil — a convenient cousin 
 who is to make things easy — a father who is only too ready to 
 give his blessing — an admiring World ! Surely that's enough? 
 And if the *poor lover' finds it impossible to accept the 
 engagement, what does it matter? Such a role as that which 
 you wished to assign to him will not go begging. You can fill 
 it at any moment." 
 
 Miles ! How can you be so cruel? Don't you love me 
 — any more ? " 
 
 A faint tinge of colour rose to Bering's face and his eyes 
 flashed ominously. 
 
 " I don't think we need discuss my feelings — now^^^ he 
 said sternly. " The important point is that you cannot stay 
 here any longer. You were going to some ball — ? " Suddenly 
 he remembered words spoken carelessly by an acquaintance 
 — the day before. " There is a ball at the Villa Platoff to-night 
 — you are going there ? " 
 
 "I was." 
 
 Hot tears were coursing down the girl's cheeks : she had 
 abandoned all attempt at self-control. " I was — but of course 
 I cannot go — now." 
 
 Why ? Traces of emotion only make you more beautiful 
 than usual and besides — you must go. You have been bought 
 and a bargain is a bargain. Part of the price paid is here — I 
 think." He lightly touched the great pearls at her throat and 
 she cried out in sudden terror. He smiled slightly. 
 
 You need not be afraid — I'm not going to hurt you. You 
 belong to another man. He has paid a price for you that I 
 could never have afforded — there you were right." 
 
 You hate me — now ? " 
 He looked at her steadily — no quiver of emotion giving 
 life to his frozen features. 
 
 No, I don't think so. I don't know you and — it sounds 
 very rude — 1 want you to go. I don't belong to your world 
 
282 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 and I possess feelings that are not always under control. You 
 have murdered the thing that was dearest to me in all the 
 world, and if I let myself go — I might injure you. Believe me 
 you had much better go to your ball — at once." 
 
 But I cannot ! Of course I am not going — now, and I 
 cannot leave you like this. You are thinking such cruel things 
 of me — you are judging me so harshly — " 
 
 Harshly!" The pent-up emotion broke loose and 
 shook him from head to foot. " You think I am harsh 
 because I tell you that I cannot bear to be in the presence of one 
 who has murdered my Ideal — killed my fondest hopes, blotted 
 the sun out of my life, wounded to death my belief in good- 
 ness and purity and love and self-respect. What do you 
 expect from me — you who have been cherished in my heart ? 
 You who have been in my thoughts night and day? For 
 whom I have worked and planned and dreamed ? You who 
 were my idol — almost I think my God? Do you know that 
 only last night I said I believed you to be as pure and lovely 
 of spirit as my mother ? You — who are more degraded than 
 the lowest of the fallen sisters, for you are selling yourself for 
 mere luxury while they sell body to keep body alive. You 
 think I am harsh but what do you deserve at my hands ? 
 You — who would have dragged me down to your level — who 
 would have prostituted my love for you ! Did you think I 
 was such another man as Comte Henri de Brissac ? Did you 
 think that / would really have been willing to share you with 
 Prince Platoff — ever — in any circumstances ? Do you know 
 me at all ? Or have you been as much mistaken in me as I 
 have in you ? You came to me with ready-made plans for the 
 future — in which I was to fill the role of lover to Princess 
 Platoff, but did you never realize — do you realize now that if 
 I once took possession of you I wouldn^t hesitate to kill you 
 before I allowed another man to so much as touch you? 
 Did you really suppose that even you could tempt me to 
 become the lover of a woman who had deliberately sold her- 
 self to Prince Platoff. You must indeed have been mistaken 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 283 
 
 in me — but it was not my fault. I warned you. I told you 
 many times that I did not belong to your World." 
 
 " You belong to a world that is harsh and unrelenting — 
 that makes impossible laws and then despises those who 
 cannot keep them. * Right' and * Wrong' have not the 
 same meaning for everyone.? We are not all made alike 
 — why should we all be expected to think alike ? And who 
 made you a judge over the thoughts and actions of, what 
 you call, my World?" 
 
 He looked down at her and he saw that the quivering 
 mouth, with its pathetic curves and crimson glory, was 
 at war with the defiant eyes — that in those wonderful 
 eyes there was a strange light — a flame of insanity. Suddenly 
 he remembered Doyenbert's words, " She is rapidly becoming 
 a slave to the Green Fairy — she is said to be one of the 
 elect." 
 
 Could it be true? 
 
 He felt suffocated. The horror of the whole thing 
 seemed to make it impossible for him to breathe. 
 
 "You cannot stay here any longer," he said brusquely. 
 "You must go. Have you a carriage waiting — are you 
 going straight to the Villa Platoff?" 
 
 " Yes — there is a carriage. I am going back to the 
 Bristol." 
 
 In silence he touched a gong and fetched her wrap. 
 
 "Chu will direct the coachman," he said: then he 
 stopped. He felt it almost impossible to leash his emotions 
 another second but race asserted itself. 
 
 "I will take you to your carriage," he said, as he held 
 open the door. 
 
 Violet looked up at him and hesitated. She tried to 
 speak but her nerves played her false and she was again 
 trembling violently. 
 
 " You wish me to go — like this ? " 
 
 Bering bent his head in assent but no word passed 
 his compressed lips. 
 
284 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 His voice was even and his look almost tranquil as 
 he shut the carriage door and directed the coachman, but 
 his face was white v;ith suppressed emotion as he walked 
 quickly up the long corridor and re-entered the studio. 
 Just as he reached the door his sister looked out 
 of her sitting-room : she was standing in shadow and 
 if he saw her he paid no heed. She was horrified at his 
 appearance but there was no time for explanation — even 
 if he had been in the mood to give one. The key turned 
 in the lock of the great door and she was shut out. 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 THE hours crept by with leaden feet. 
 Seduced by the shadows of night they lingered and 
 paused. Their passing seemed interminable but Bering 
 was unconscious of their presence. 
 
 On returning to the studio, his brain aflame with excite- 
 ment, he had thrown himself into a chair by one of the 
 great round tables, his arms stretched out to support 
 his bowed head. 
 
 And there was silence. The room seemed as the 
 resting-place of the dead. 
 
 A storm of fury raged within the motionless figure. 
 Hate — bitter contempt — absolute loathing, took possession 
 of him by turns and then in one demoniac band. In that 
 hour Bering learned the truth of the words — " Hell has 
 no rage like love to hatred turned," for it seemed to him 
 that he hated Violet Hilliard as passionately as he had 
 loved her : almost as fiercely as he hated, and most bitterly 
 envied, Platoff. And in that envy, thrust aside but none 
 the less realized, lay the crown of thorns which pressed 
 into his flesh until the agony became intolerable. 
 
 He had put Violet aside with insulting words : he had 
 driven her away from his door but he longed for her 
 with all his strength. 
 
 She had laid in the dust his cherished Ideal — she had 
 thrown down his Idol and defaced it past recognition, but 
 she was the woman he desired above all other living 
 creatures. And because of the passionate wild desire 
 that was devastating his whole being he determined — in 
 those first awful moments — to kill her rather than let 
 her come into the possession of any other man. 
 
 285 
 
286 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 Gabrielle Borizoff had spoken but the truth when 
 she said that Bering was in many respects "primeval." 
 He had in him, vigorous and full of health, the germs of 
 the uncivilized man who holds his own against all comers, 
 without regard to law, except the law of possession. He 
 would himself have been the first to say that love sanctified 
 everything — almost. 
 
 But not that! 
 
 Not that horrible thing that she had suggested. 
 
 The bare idea of her marriage with PlatofT brought 
 with it such horror that he felt he had entered into the 
 region of madness. 
 
 The height and depth of his disappointment absolutely 
 unmanned him. His heaven had been in his arms. Not 
 all the gold in the world could have bought from him one 
 of those seconds of perfect bliss. He had reached the 
 heights of delirious happiness and then he had been 
 thrust out— by her little white hand — into darkness that 
 imaged the horrors of hell. And it was she who had done 
 it. Deliberately: with intention. The cruelty lay in 
 that. She had come to him — straight into his longing 
 arms — with the story all arranged. She had thought it 
 out carefully. She had laid her plans. 
 
 It seemed incredible. Unbelievable. 
 
 A creature so exquisite — little more than a girl? 
 
 And she loved him ; of that he felt certain. 
 
 She loved him and yet she was willing to sacrifice 
 herself and him for a few ropes of world-famous pearls : 
 for a few sacks of golden coins? 
 
 She was not wanting in intelligence. He knew she 
 must have realized that before he could have agreed 
 to her suggestion all that was best in him must have 
 been trampled to death under the restless feet of 
 passion. 
 
 He raised his head wearily and rested it on one hand. 
 He was trying to hold himself away from the insidious 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 287 
 
 snares of madness. His brain was still on fire but his 
 thoughts were slowly clearing. 
 
 As in a dream within a dream he looked back on the 
 days — how long ago they seemed, when he had believed 
 he understood her character perfectly. When he would 
 have staked his life on the certainty that he had read 
 her aright. And then upon the palimpsest of his brain 
 certain words appeared — Dear old fellow — you are 
 wonderful ! But beware of the pride of intuition, for it 
 may lead you far astray one of these days." Words which 
 had been spoken, in the old flat in Paris, by a man he 
 liked well — Anthony Gray, who since those days had 
 become a shining light in the Anglican Church ! He 
 almost smiled as he remembered the handsome face of 
 the young man who, even then, was always spoken of as 
 '*a fanatic." Gray had been, was still, one of his most 
 valued friends but they had often disagreed on vital points. 
 And the Priest had distrusted the peculiar quality on 
 which the painter placed implicit reliance — intuitive 
 judgment of character. 
 
 Bering rose abruptly and pushed aside his chair. For 
 a moment he stood still and looked round his studio as 
 though questioning it. Then he went to the open window 
 where he had waited" — through the long hours of a 
 dragging day. 
 
 He leaned out and welcomed the chill of the still night 
 
 air. 
 
 The cypress shadows in the garden down below were 
 black and gaunt but, far away — in the bosom of the East 
 — there was already a thread of pale gold ! 
 
 It was the moment of earliest dawn and something 
 of calm stole over him as the wonder-thread expanded and 
 became suffused with pale rose. He leaned out and peered 
 into the mysteries of the shadowy garden, and as he did 
 so the faint note of a far-away bird floated in on the chill 
 air. He listened intently and the note grew fainter and 
 
288 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 fainter. But from out the shadows of the garden a glow 
 of crimson Light seemed to seek him. Nearer and nearer 
 it came — until he fancied he could touch it ! And then 
 the Light took form and — close to his hand — he thought 
 he saw a glorious rose — blood-red and fragrant with sweetest 
 perfume ! 
 
 He stretched out his hand towards it as he unconsciously 
 sank back into a chair. 
 • 
 
 When memory returned the East was filled with streaks 
 of gold and rose and mystic blue. 
 
 With a weary gesture he turned from the window and 
 approached one of the tables on which papers and loose 
 sketches were piled in careless confusion. He was conscious 
 that he was looking for something. For a minute or two 
 he turned the papers over and over. Then he stopped. 
 He had found the little rough sketches of a girl's hands — 
 the delicious hands that Doyenbert had described as 
 "the mother type.'' 
 
 He knelt beside the table and drew the sketches to him. 
 With eager eyes he devoured each line — each dainty, helpless 
 curve. Burning tears gathered in his eyes and fell — one 
 by one — on the white paper. The agony of the moment 
 seemed more than he could bear. 
 
 Then, as though in answer to some silent protest of 
 the eloquent curves, he laid his arm tenderly over the 
 sketches. 
 
 He was alone — absolutely alone, but it seemed a 
 sacrilege to look at those hands while his thoughts were 
 wandering — Ah, God ! Where were they not wandering ? 
 What fond hopes had been built upon the possibilities 
 of that sacred mother type"? 
 
 The " Irish " in him made itself felt — strongly. A tinge 
 of colour stained the bronzed face and he hastily put the 
 sketches together and hid them away in a big leather 
 case. He was alone but that unaccountable, baffling 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 289 
 
 shyness which is the birthright of the Celt, held him in 
 thrall. It seemed to him that he had betrayed a secret ! 
 A secret of his own heart — but none the less a con- 
 fidence. 
 
 He went slowly back to his favourite window and 
 watched the shadows of Night giving place to approaching 
 Day. The morning air was chill but there was fever in 
 his veins and he welcomed the breeze that came to him 
 across the heads of the stately cypress sentinels. The 
 echo of the nightingale's dying note — the vision of the 
 blood-red rose — these had brought him something of peace. 
 His brain was still confused but it seemed to him that the 
 war of Night and Day, at which he had looked, was 
 symbolic. 
 
 With him it was still night but he was becoming con- 
 scious that somewhere there was day — even for him. Even, 
 though it seemed so cruelly impossible, for him, wiih 
 her. 
 
 He found himself trying to reconstruct the possible 
 story of her childhood — of the days when she had un- 
 consciously crossed the mystic stream which divides the 
 land of quickening buds from that of breaking blossoms. 
 
 He tried to picture her at the moment when her beauty 
 was dawning — when it was but a narrow thread of golden 
 promise hke that which he had just seen widen in the 
 eastern sky. 
 
 She must have been exquisite — always. And wilful ! 
 And, beyond all living things, lovable ! 
 He thought of her childhood : of her early impressions — 
 of her certain temptations. 
 The teachings of her father ? 
 
 The mere thought of Weston Hilliard — as her father — 
 filled him with fury. The man whose name was a byword 
 
 over Europe — who would assuredly have sold his own 
 wife if the price had been high enough and if he had seen 
 his way to the invention of a suitable "explanation ' 
 19 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 On one side Weston Hilliard, 
 On the other—'' Aunt Rachel." 
 
 And though Bering appreciated, and in a sense liked, 
 his sister's austere friend he understood very well what 
 her constant companionship must have meant to 
 Violet. 
 
 And then the Comtesse de Brissac and — the World. 
 
 He had never entered Madame de Brissac's suite of rooms 
 at the Bristol; but he understood her position only too 
 well. 
 
 The story of the menage was an open secret in Rome as 
 well as in Paris. 
 
 Violet had hardly ever spoken to him of her life before 
 this visit to Rome, but he was able to piece together little 
 things she had said from time to time. He knew she was 
 proud and intensely sensitive ; he felt that she must have 
 suffered very often, and in silence 
 
 And then, with determination, he dragged his unwilling 
 thoughts towards the subject of — what Doyenbert had called 
 —the ''Green Fairy.'^ 
 
 The idea was horrible but he forced himself to look at 
 possible facts justly. That the girl had already become "a 
 slave" to absinthe he refused to believe, but — it was quite 
 possible that she had acquired a taste for the insidious stuff. 
 It was even probable that she had found comfort in it at some 
 moment of difficulty. 
 
 In Paris he had seen much of the effects of absinthe. He 
 understood what had been implied when the Russian Prince 
 told Doyenbert that Violet was " one of the elect." Given her 
 fervent, excitable temperament the accursed " Green Fairy" 
 might indeed work wonders. The thought of it — of the 
 possibilities that lay behind it — acted as a flaming torch flung 
 upon the smouldering fragments of his fierce anger. He felt 
 his hard-won control slipping away, and to recover it he turned 
 from the window, crossed the room and lightly touched a 
 little gong which stood on a table near the door. It was still 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 291 
 
 early but he knew the faithful Chu would be awaiting his 
 call. 
 
 A moment later a motionless figure in dark blue stood in 
 the doorway. The boy, little more than a child, had passed 
 the night in the throes of pitiful anxiety but his yellow face 
 betrayed no sign of emotion. In silence he awaited his 
 master's orders and then vanished. 
 
 Bering looked after him as he glided down the long 
 corridor and something like a smile hovered round his com- 
 pressed lips. Chu's devotion was wonderful and, just then, 
 very welcome. 
 
 A few minutes later the boy returned, carrying in his hands 
 a tray containing the petit dejeitner-, coffee and rolls and — 
 Bering found himself wondering where they had come from 
 — a little silver dish piled up with wild strawberries. 
 
 Chu stood still a second, waiting fresh orders, but since 
 none came he glided out, to return immediately with a single 
 white rose in a slender vase. He placed the flower on the 
 table close to where his master was sitting and turned to go. 
 But before he could reach the door it opened suddenly and 
 Jessica Bering came in. 
 
 Miles There was amazement in the voice and some- 
 thing of terror. "Miss Hilliard is here. She wants to see 
 you." 
 
 "Miss Hilliard? She has arrived from Florence — 
 already ? " 
 
 " Oh, no — no. It's Violet Hilliard — the niece.'' 
 " Here ? " 
 
 Bering thought his sister had gone suddenly mad, but his 
 face flushed as he glanced past her and saw a tall figure 
 standing in the doorway. 
 
 "Will you allow me to come in? I am going to join my 
 aunt in Florence to-day but there is something I wish to say 
 to you before I go." 
 
 The words were spoken in an even voice, free from 
 emotion of any kind. Bering just waited to glance 
 
292 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 at the set white face, and then he came to the girFs 
 side. 
 
 ^*0f course — if I can be of any service?'' 
 
 Violet bowed her head in assent, and as Bering indicated 
 a chair to his visitor his sister quietly slipped out of the room 
 and shut the door. 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 IN silence Bering crossed the room and shut the window. 
 Then he threw some pine logs on the fire and came 
 back to the table. 
 
 "You are leaving Rome to-day? " he asked quietly. 
 "Yes." 
 
 The girl was sitting in a big arm-chair but she was not 
 leaning back. On the contrary she was sitting in a strained, 
 upright position, her ungloved hands tightly clasped on her 
 lap. She was very pale and her haunting eyes seemed set in 
 dusky frames, for emotion, or fatigue, had darkened her heavy 
 white lids. She was still lovely but she was changed. So 
 greatly changed that Dering felt he might almost have passed 
 her in the street, unrecognized, had he met her unexpectedly. 
 There was about her whole person a subtle atmosphere of 
 aloofness : she gave the impression of being in the world but 
 not of it. She was neither at ease nor ill at ease, she was 
 simply a thing apart. 
 
 In the palpitating silence Dering watched her closely. He 
 was amazed, completely mystified. Why had she come to 
 him — at this extraordinary hour ? Of what was she thinking ? 
 What was she going to say ? 
 
 After that first question he waited. And she, too, waited 
 in silence but without emotion. Then a look of physical pain 
 stole across her frozen features and she pressed her hand to 
 her forehead. 
 
 " My head aches. It makes me stupid." 
 
 Dering gave no sign of concern, other than that of a 
 polite host, but he poured out a cup of coffee and placed 
 it near her. 
 
 293 
 
294 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 " You seem very tired, " he said. " This will do you 
 good." 
 
 She shook her head. Then the necessity for strength 
 prompted her to accept and she drank it. Again there was 
 silence. Bering sat motionless as a bronze statue and the 
 girl seemed unable to frame the words she wanted to 
 speak. At last she said : 
 
 "There is something I want to say — will you listen, 
 right on to the end? I don't want your opinion — your 
 ideas — your praise or condemnation. I only want you to 
 listen." 
 
 He made a silent sign of assent. 
 
 She drew herself up as though making a strong effort to 
 retain self-control, and once more she pressed her hand to 
 her forehead. Then, with a little impatient gesture she 
 drew the long pins from her fur cap and took it off. With 
 a clever, very personal, movement of her slender fingers 
 she ruffled up the waves of pale gold hair. 
 
 " I am going back to i\unt Rachel — to-day. She will 
 expect me. I have telegraphed." 
 
 She stopped short and, for the first time, looked at him. 
 Their eyes met but Bering's expressed nothing more than 
 the obligatory, perfunctory interest of a man who is listening 
 to a woman's words. His apparent lack of interest gave 
 her courage. His mood marched in line with hers. For 
 a moment she scanned his face and then she looked down. 
 
 have one favour to ask of you — only one. You 
 must believe that I would never have come here, this 
 morning, if I had not realized that everything is ended — 
 absolutely, definitely. You think very badly of me but you 
 may believe me — this once. I mean what I say." 
 I do not doubt it." 
 
 **But you might easily doubt — almost anyone would. 
 What I am doing is extraordinary — I know it. Anyone, 
 almost, would think I had come here to ask — for your pity 
 or for — something of that sort, but it's not true. I have 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 not come here for that. The bare idea of such a thing 
 is horrible." 
 
 The underlying excitement which had been so deter- 
 minedly driven back was forcing itself to the front and her 
 voice was harsh. She seemed on the verge of an outburst 
 of hysterical weeping but the expression on Bering's face 
 checked it. He was looking at her quite calmly and his 
 voice betrayed no emotion. 
 
 ^'I'm convinced you have not come here to ask for my 
 *pity' and I agree with you that the bare idea of such a 
 thing is * horrible.' " 
 
 "You understand that I have come here — because I 
 had to speak to you before I left Rome ? " 
 
 " I understand." 
 
 She clasped her hands together tightly and stared into 
 the heart of the flaming pine logs in the open grate. 
 
 **What you said to me — of me — last night was quite 
 true but you didn't know all the truth. That's why I am 
 here. I want you to know everything — I've done with 
 pretences — I've had more than enough of them, and of 
 indecision. Ever since I can remember I've been unable 
 to decide whether I wanted to be good or bad. I don't 
 know now — I only know that I mean to speak the truth to 
 you, and to Aunt Rachel. I shall never see you again 
 after to-day, and I may — I don't know — live with her all 
 the rest of my life, but I'm determined that you and she 
 shall know me as I am. You despise money, Aunt Rachel 
 does too — in a way — but all ray life I've seen that a 
 woman had no chance if she has not plenty of it. It's easy 
 — at least I suppose so — for you to do without it because 
 your ambitions and ideals make it possible for you to despise 
 the World but my ambition has always been to lead and 
 to rule. I have always felt that the only thing worth living 
 for is the power to meet insolence with insolence — the 
 power to make people afraid. And only money can do 
 that — or what money buys. I don't want to excuse any- 
 
296 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 thing IVe said or done — I'm long beyond that. What you 
 think of me does not matter — now. But if you had been 
 in my place, if you had suffered the humiliations I have 
 suffered, you would understand — at least I think you would 
 but Fm not sure. You are not like anyone else. When I 
 lived with my father it was horrible — more horrible than 
 you could imagine, for everyone knew him and everyone 
 avoided him except the young men he fooled and the old 
 men who admired me. And he tried to make me useful 
 — it was the only value I had in his eyes. And before that 
 there was Aunt Rachel." She stopped short and pressed 
 her hands to her eyes. Physical weakness was fighting 
 for the mastery and it was with difficulty she kept her voice 
 from trembling. Aunt Rachel and the * poor dears ' ! 
 They were so good to me but — Oh, it was so dull. I have 
 told you the truth — I never could decide what I wanted 
 to do with my life — I hadn't the courage to be really good 
 or wholly bad. I wanted the world and I wanted the *poor 
 dears ' and then — you came. And you made it so difficult. 
 And then I thought I saw a way out — a real way, and I 
 wanted to take it." She stopped again and looked him 
 straight in the face. I am going to tell you something 
 that will shock you very much. You already think me 
 horrible and degraded but there is something you don't 
 know — " 
 
 She seemed choked with emotion and for a moment 
 she leaned back against the cushions and shut her 
 eyes. 
 
 Bering held his breath. For the first time — for a single 
 second — the insidious tentacles of suspicion closed about 
 his heart. 
 
 What was she going to say ? 
 
 The girl opened her eyes wearily. She was passing 
 quickly through many phases of fatigue. The momentary 
 excitement had died away, leaving her desperately tired. 
 She returned to her old position in the chair : sitting up- 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 right, with clasped hands and eyes turned on the flames 
 in the grate. 
 
 After all it's not so important. It cannot matter to 
 you one way or the other, but I've learned to like absinthe. 
 At least I've learned to depend on it — for many things. 
 You once said you would never let me taste it — you 
 remember? Well, I had already tasted it the7i, I already 
 knew its power. You will think it horrible but to me it 
 was wonderful. Even from the first it made everything 
 seem different. It made me feel I really had in my 
 possession all the lovely things I wanted. It made me 
 feel I was as much admired and feared as Princess Borizoff 
 — that I had even greater power than she had. But it was 
 not always the same — the effect I mean." She looked at 
 him steadily and her eyes were defiant though her mouth 
 was quivering. Last night I had taken it but — " 
 
 Bering made a sudden movement, and she saw his eyes. 
 With a little cry she threw out her hands. '^Oh, no — no^ 
 don't think that — don't try to find an excuse for me. I had 
 intended to say — what I said — before I took it. I had 
 thought it all out, only — I don't think I should have had the 
 courage to speak without it. I meant what I said — I meant 
 it, even though I knew about Muriel." 
 
 And now ? What do you mean now ? " 
 I ? Only that everything is at an end — everything. 
 There was a dreadful scene last night — when I went back to 
 the hotel. Muriel was there — and my father. They said 
 such cruel things — about you — about everything. And I 
 said things to them that can never be forgotten. The whole 
 thing was frightful, and I could never again live with either 
 Muriel or my father, even if they wanted me. I've made a 
 mess of my life and I've made up my mind, absolutely, to 
 go back to Aunt Rachel and to stay with her — if she will 
 have me. Just now, I can't think : my brain seems on fire, 
 but later on — there will be time to settle what I am to do." 
 
 **And Prince Platofif?" 
 
298 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 A rush of painful colour stained her face. 
 
 I have told you that everything is at an end." 
 ** You have seen him ? " 
 
 " No. I have written. I have the letter here. I want 
 you — to send it — if you will ? I was afraid to trust it to — 
 the people at the hotel, and the post seemed so long." 
 She did not look at him as she put a letter and a small 
 parcel on the table. Please send it — and the parcel — 
 this morning. The parcel is valuable — the pearls are in 
 it/' 
 
 He bent his head in silence. There was within him such 
 a clamour of glad music that it seemed as though a heavenly 
 host had descended to rejoice before the gates of his heart. 
 He had drawn his chair closer to hers, and as his right arm 
 stole forward over the cushions she was encircled. 
 
 " And so * everything ' is at an end ? Everything — except 
 your love for me? " 
 
 She looked up suddenly. Her eyes were miserable but 
 defiant. Before she could speak, he caught her hands and 
 held them tight. 
 
 " You have said that you came here this morning to speak 
 the truth, and there's only one truth I care to hear. Tell me 
 — do you love me? " 
 
 Burning tears gathered in her eyes, and fell — one by one. 
 She was trembling, but her voice was firm. 
 
 "Yes. And that's what makes it all impossible — why 
 Tm going away — at once." 
 
 " Because you love me ? " 
 
 **Yes." 
 
 Her tears were falling fast, and she made no attempt to 
 brush them aside. Because of the tumult of rapture in his 
 heart Bering could not trust himself to speak, but the strong 
 arms drew her closer and closer. She struggled against them, 
 and her face grew very white. 
 
 " No ! Please let me go. I know Tm right. IVe seen 
 myself as I really am — I understand everything noiv. This 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 morning while I was waiting for the sun to rise I had time 
 to think, and I realized then that everything is really at an 
 end. IVe made a mess of my life, and I must take the 
 consequences. Tm not what you supposed me to be — I 
 never could have been your Ideal — it was all a mistake. I 
 saw the truth last night — and this morning. I couldn't sleep, 
 and I was alone. In a time like that one realizes the real 
 truth." 
 
 ''You were watching for the dawn — alone? And I — ?" 
 He tightened his grasp on her hands and drew her towards 
 him. "Did you think of the blood-red rose — did you send 
 it to me — at Dawn? When you were alone? When you 
 realized that ' everything ' was at an end ? 
 
 The broken whisper thrilled her, but she clung to her 
 determination. 
 
 "Please don't let us misunderstand each other now — at 
 the last moment. What is done cannot be undone. You 
 may think now that you could forget — but you could not. 
 Neither could I. You were foolish to idealize me, but you 
 would do it. I told you so often what I was, but you 
 wouldn't believe, and now the end has come. Everything is 
 over and done with, and — I am going — " 
 
 Everything I Every little thing, except that you love 
 me and that I love you. Everything but our love is 
 blotted out as if it had never existed. We were born this 
 morning — with the Dawn — you and I ! And just as soon as 
 ever things can be arranged we're going to look for our 
 Garden of Eden — in Japan. In the sunshine, by our lotus 
 lake ! You remember the picture of the girl in white with 
 the flame of love-light in her eyes ? You remember that you 
 said it was not a good likeness ? Well — I'm going to prove 
 to you that it was the best portrait ever painted — I'm going 
 to show you that Lucci wasn't far wrong after all when he 
 called me ' A Painter of Souls ' ! " He laughed softly as he 
 laid his bronzed cheek against hers — so pale and wan. "You 
 confess that you've made rather a mess of your life so far, 
 
300 A PAINTER OF SOULS 
 
 and now I am going to see what can be done with it — and 
 with you ! " 
 
 *'But you don't understand — you won^t understand. I 
 came here this morning because — " 
 
 "Because you were troubled and tired. Because you 
 knew that this was your home and that here, in my arms, you 
 would be safe. Sweetheart — confess ! Wasn't it as natural 
 to you to come to me when you were in trouble as it would 
 be for a bird to seek its mate in springtime ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes — in a way, but — you're saying all this because 
 you're sorry for me." 
 
 Because I'm horribly sorry for myself and for all the worry 
 you have given me. And because I don't mean to let you go 
 — ever again. And because — sweetheart mine — because I 
 love you and you love me ! " He was holding her close to 
 his heart but he did not kiss her. She was worn out, 
 completely unnerved, and he knew it. For a second or two 
 he held her in a soft embrace and then he laughed a little. 
 
 Aren't you starved — you poor little girl? And aren't 
 you frozen in this big room, so far away from the fire ? Shall 
 we have our breakfast — over there in a comfy corner — just we 
 two ? And then you can rest." 
 
 He rose to his feet and drew her up. She seemed dazed 
 and faint : but for his support she must have fallen. 
 
 But I have telegraphed to Aunt Rachel — and all my 
 trunks are at the door, waiting for me ? " 
 
 "At the door — nowl But that's magnificent! And as 
 for Aunt Rachel — she's on her way down to Rome. She'll be 
 here, in this house, this evening : we needn't bother about 
 her until she arrives." 
 
 He pushed her softly into a big chair by the fire and rang 
 the bell. 
 
 Chu entered and received some orders, but when the door 
 was again shut Violet stood up resolutely. 
 
 " Miles — this is madness : you'll regret it all your life. 
 You're making a terrible mistake — indeed you are." 
 
A PAINTER OF SOULS 301 
 
 In believing that you iove me ? " 
 *'No! But—" 
 In having made up his mind that weVe going to spend 
 our honeymoon in Japan — and that you're going to wear a 
 white lace frock when we visit that particular lotus lake ? " 
 
 " Oh, please — you must be serious. You'll be sorry — I 
 know it. None of your friends like me, and then — there's 
 your sister. What will she think?" 
 
 Jessica? But what has she to do with us? Later on 
 she and * Aunt Rachel ' can fix up their plans for keeping 
 house together but at this moment you needn't think about 
 either of them. All you have to do is to concentrate your 
 attention on me — and on your breakfast ! " 
 " Miles—? " 
 
 But the final feeble protest was drowned in the chink cf 
 cups and plates as Chu entered with a big tray. 
 
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