"Confound the impudence of such fellows!" said Colonel Carlyle, fretfully, as he entered his wife's morning-room.

It was a charming apartment with hangings of pale blue satin that made a perfect foil to the pearl-fair beauty of Bonnibel.

The chairs and sofas were upholstered in the same rich material; the carpet was white velvet, sprinkled over with blue forget-me-nots; the costly white lace curtains were draped over blue satin, and the bright fire burning in the silver grate shone upon expensive gilding and delicate bric-a-brac scattered profusely about the room.

A marble Flora, half buried in flowers, stood in a niche, and vases of delicate white lilies were on the marble mantel.

The young mistress of all this beauty and wealth so tastefully combined, as she sat near the fire with an open book, looked like a gem set in an appropriate shrine, so fair, and pure, and dainty, was her person and her apparel.

She looked up with a slight smile as her liege lord's fretful ejaculation fell upon her ears.

"What person has been so unfortunate as to incur your displeasure?" she inquired.

[Pg 87]

"The artist of whom I purchased that splendid picture for the drawing-room—the last one, you know."

"Yes," she said, languidly; "and what has he done now?"

"I wanted him to paint your portrait, you know."

"Excuse me, I did not know," she returned.

"Oh no; I believe you did not. I think I failed to mention the matter to you. Well, he is the greatest artist in Rome—people are raving over his pictures. They say he has the most brilliant genius of his time."

"Is that why you are angry with him?" she asked, with a slight smile.

"No; oh, no. But I wrote to him and asked him to paint your portrait. I even offered to take you to Rome if he would not come to Paris."

"Well?"

"He had the impertinence to send me a cool refusal," said the colonel, irately.

"He did—and why?" asked Bonnibel, just a little piqued at the unknown artist.

"He did not like to paint portraits, he said—he preferred the ideal world of art. Did you ever hear of such a cool excuse?"

"We have no right to feel angry with him. He is, of course, the master of his own actions, and has undoubted right to his preferences," said Bonnibel, calmly.

But though she spoke so quietly, her womanly vanity was piqued by the unknown artist's cold refusal "to hand her sweetness down to fame."

"Who is he? What is his name?" she asked.

The colonel considered a moment.

"I have a wonderful faculty for forgetting names," he said. "Favart has told me his name several times—let me see—I think—yes, I am sure—it is Deane!"

"I should like to see him," she said, "I have always taken a great deal of interest in artists."

"You will be very apt to see him," said the colonel; "he is in Paris now—taking a holiday, Favart says. People are making quite a fuss over him and his friend—the artist from whom I bought the other fine picture, you know. You will be sure to meet them in society."

"Do you think so?" she asked, twirling the leaves of her book nervousl............