caught in the matrimonial toils.

Dora was playing with the pansies that she had scattered on the table.

"You see these flowers," she said suddenly to de Lussac, "well, there is an impenetrable mystery connected with them."

"You don't say so," said he, noticing the comically majestic air she had assumed.

"Yes! a real live mystery. On our wedding-day there arrived a bunch similar to this one. Who sent it? That is the mystery. On every anniversary of our marriage, we get another. Are the flowers for Philip or for me? More mystery. Philip says they are from some old admirer of mine; from some old sweetheart of his, I say. Still they come, and are always welcome."

"I am not versed in the language of flowers," said de Lussac, "but I fancy I remember a little verse, beginning something after this fashion—

I cannot recollect the words exactly, but perhaps there is a bleeding heart somewhere. Oh, this is terrible of me," exclaimed de Lussac, again looking at his watch; "it is eleven o'clock, and I am still here chattering. I ought to be at the Embassy; I must really go. Will you be kind enough to tell your husband that I will send him a wire as soon as I know something definite?—no, no, I will come myself."

"About what?" said Dora.

"Oh! about something—which concerns me."

He shook hands with Dora and went out hurriedly.

Dora, left alone, began to arrange the flowers. The pansy was a flower which fascinated her, and suggested to her mind all kinds of fantastic faces. She seemed to see sad and solemn ones, some smiling and gay, others saucy; they represented to her a perfect gallery of weird faces. She chose some of the best, made them into a little bouquet for Philip to paint in her picture. Taking away one or two that did not harmonise with her dress, she placed the bunch on her husband's easel.

"Oh, what pretty flowers!" shouted Eva, who had just come into the studio, followed by Hobbs. She was dressed to go out for her daily morning walk.

"Mama, aren't you coming out for a walk with us?"

"No, my sweet," replied Dora; "I cannot this morning. You know that daddy is going to finish my picture this morning, so I must stay with him; he will want me."

"You are always with daddy," said Eva, pouting. "You never come for a walk with me."

"How can you say such things? You know I go out very often with you—but I can't to-day. To-morrow, yes! to-morrow. Come, be a good little girl."

"A good little girl," said Eva, sighing, "that's what you always say to me."

"When I was a little girl," said Dora, trying to look serious, "I, too, had to be good, you know."

"Oh, mama! aren't you glad you're not a little girl any longer?" said Eva.

"Oh, what shall we do with her, Hobbs, if she is so naughty?" said Dora, taking the child up in her arms and covering her with kisses.

And yet, she knew that the reproaches were well-merited.

"Is it true that mama was a little girl first?"

"Of course, dear, certainly."

"Quite a little girl, and then as tall as that—and that—and that?"

"Yes!—and then like this," said Dora, touching the top of her head.

"Well, then, you had a mama, too, that's grandma, isn't it? Was she pretty, like you?"

"Much prettier."

"Did she scold you?"

"Certainly, when I was naughty."

"Isn't it funny though?—Where is daddy?"

"He is coming in a minute, dearie. Come, it is time you went for a walk, Hobbs," said Dora to the good woman, who was laughing at the child's questions; "do not stay out very long; it is chilly, and Miss Eva might catch cold."

"Very well, ma'am," replied Hobbs.

Dora, ascertaining that the child was warmly enough clad, gave her bonnet strings an extra touch, then looked at her and kissed her again and again.

Eva and her nurse went out at the studio door. The latter, finding a letter in the box, came back with it and gave it to Dora, returning again to the child.

Dora, remembering Eva's reproaches, felt the tears come into her eyes. With many women the mother kills the wife, but Dora was so much absorbed in her husband that she often reproached herself with not taking enough notice of the child. She was wife first, mother next. Yet, God knew how she adored her child.

IV

DORA

It was past noon, and Philip had not yet set to work.

For some time past Dora had noticed that Philip had no longer the same lively interest in his painting, but she had been very careful not to speak to him about it. Dora was the ideal artist's wife, not only because she understood her husband's art, but also because she was keenly alive to the conditions under which works of art are produced. If she had been the wife of Bernard de Palissy, she herself would have broken up the furniture of her home to keep alive the furnace fire. Blessed with a calm, even temperament herself, she knew that the artistic nature is sensitive, susceptible, irritable even, and that a veritable diplomacy has to be exercised daily and hourly, if one would so live with an artist as to cheer him in his moments of discouragement, to stimulate him, to give him constantly the discreet and intelligent praise he needs, when it seems to him that his imagination and his powers are forsaking him, and that he is no longer doing his best work. An artist is a piece of machinery that must be wound up every day. There is scarce an artist worthy of the name who does not think he is used up each time that he terminates a new work, and there is not a painter who, when he shows a new picture for the first time, does not watch the scrutinising gaze of the critic, much as a mother watches with anxious eye the expression of the doctor who is going to pronounce himself upon the subject of her sick child. An artist is a child, who must be constantly petted and applauded.

Dora knew all that, and, on this subject, she had nothing to reproach herself with; on the contrary, it was to her that her husband owed his growing celebrity—she had made him what he was. She did not take any credit for this, she had never reminded him of it, never a hint on the subject had passed her lips. A woman like Dora leaves a husband to recognise these things for himself, but never speaks of them.

Dora had not the courage to ask Philip why he painted with less ardour, but she longed to say to him, "You promised me that you would finish the portrait to-day; you tell me that it is only a matter of two or three hours' work; but I am sure that it will take seven or eight hours to finish it ... why don't you set about it?" And her imagination fell to inventing all sorts of explanations, each more fantastic and improbable than the other.

The last words of Monsieur de Lussac came back to her memory, "Pansies for thought—Love lies bleeding." What connection would there be between a pansy and a crushed love? No one had ever loved her well enough to break his heart about her, except Philip, and he had married her. But he? Had there been a romance in his life, before she had known him? He had never spoken of anything of the kind. "After all," she said to herself, "the best of men have some experience of that kind in their early life, which they do not talk about. Ah, well! what matters it? Philip has filled my life with happiness."

Her glance wandered again to the picture. "Not yet finished," she murmured. "Has he forgotten his promise? For some time past he has been quite strange; he seems preoccupied, distraught, anxious even—at times his mind seems to be far away." And a thousand ideas flitted through her mind, only to be dismissed as all equally absurd.

Suddenly she uttered a little cry of surprise, to find the vigorous arms of her husband clasped around her waist.

"What is my little wife thinking