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On the 10th of May 1897, that is to say on the sixth anniversary of Philip's marriage with Dora, he had promised to present her with a portrait of herself. The picture was all but finished. Only a painter would have noticed that it wanted a few more touches to complete it.

Hobbs, a faithful servant, who had been Dora's nurse in her old home, and had followed her to St. John's Wood when she had married, was dusting the studio and gazing with admiring eyes at the portrait of Dora, which seemed to smile at her from her master's easel.

"Only a few flowers to put in," said the good woman, "and the picture will be finished. I have watched it for weeks. How wonderful it is! Just her beautiful face and kind smile. And to think that there are people who pay hundreds of pounds to have their portrait painted! How lucky a lady is to be the wife of a painter—she can get hers for nothing!"

She was interrupted in her reflections by a ring and a double knock at the studio door. Hobbs ran to answer the postman, and returned immediately, bearing in her hand a box from which some magnificent pansies were escaping. She had great difficulty in extracting the flowers from the badly crushed box.

"Pansies," said she, "for the portrait, no doubt—models for copying. If I were the wife of a painter, that is the only kind of model I would allow my husband to paint from—nature. Fancy women coming to a studio and undressing before a man!—the hussies! I am glad there are no such creatures wanted here."

It is necessary to be an artist, or at any rate of an artistic nature, to understand that it is possible to regard a perfectly nude model with as much sang-froid and respect as one would a statue; but the English middle class have not the artistic nature; and, in the eyes of a good ordinary woman, a female model is a lost creature, and the artist who studies and draws her an abandoned man. England produces something very humorous: this is the prudish model, who comes to an artist's studio, refuses at first, hesitates long, and finally offers to pose in tights. Better still. A French painter in New York was doing the portrait of a beautiful American woman in evening dress. When the head and shoulders were finished, the pretty American declared that she was too busy to pose any longer, and suggested that the picture might be completed from a model of her own height and figure, who could wear her gown. The painter agreed, but had the greatest difficulty in finding a model who would consent to exhibit her charms, as the society lady of the United States had done freely and imperturbably.

Hobbs did not let her indignation get the better of her, and, consoling herself with the thought that "the creatures" were not wanted here, finished dusting the studio, and then, gathering up the pansies, took them to her mistress.

It was ten o'clock. Philip had not yet come to the studio. He usually began working at nine o'clock, and went on steadily until one, so as to profit fully by the best of the light that London puts at the disposition of an artist. Hobbs was astonished that her master was not yet at work, especially as she knew he had promised Dora to finish her portrait by the 10th of May. She herself had told her so. She began making conjectures, when a loud ringing at the studio door aroused her from her reverie.

She returned in a few moments, followed by a young man about twenty-five, tall and distinguished-looking, with a pleasant face, whom she had often seen in the house.

"This way, please, sir," said she, showing him into the studio; "master hasn't come down yet, but I am sure he won't be long. I will go and tell him you are here."

Hobbs knew that M. de Lussac was a friend, and not one of those inconvenient people who bore artists by going to their studios and talking inanities to them about their work. Besides, she had a list of the people whom Philip received at any time. And she went immediately to inform her master of M. de Lussac's arrival.

Georges de Lussac was an attaché at the French Embassy in London. The manly beauty of his face and figure, his good spirits, elegant manners and easy wit, added to the lustre of his name, made him one of the favourites of London society. No ball, dinner, or house-party was quite complete without him, the most sought-after man in the most aristocratic circles. He was a favourite with artists, whose works he well knew how to appreciate, and welcomed in literary society owing to his brilliant conversational powers. These also gained for him the admiration of society women, who were fascinated by his soft, insinuating voice. There are legions of women who admire first in a man—a well-cut coat, an intelligent and handsome face, with a slightly cynical smile which seems so little in earnest that they say to themselves, "He is not serious; with him one can have a good time without fear of being compromised; and then, he is a diplomatist, and as discreet as a tomb." By reason of this reputation for discreetness, the diplomatist is beyond competition in the race for women's favour, without even excepting the brilliant cavalry officer who appeals chiefly to women in love with glitter and who are ready to catch Cupid as he flies. I have not mentioned the tenor, who only makes his chief conquests amongst romantic and flighty women. In high society in France, England, and probably everywhere, the distribution of prizes is somewhat in this order: First prize, the diplomatist; second prize, the officer of hussars; third prize, the tenor. Accesserunt, the remainder who have not much to share between them. In the remainder may be classed husbands.

De Lussac drew a gold cigarette case from his pocket, took a cigarette, and seating himself on a divan began to smoke.

"I know of nothing pleasanter," said he, "than a chat and smoke in the morning with a painter in his sanctum. If I had to live all my time in one apartment, I would choose first a studio, secondly, a library; in all other rooms, one eats, drinks, sleeps, or bores oneself."

He gazed complacently around the studio and his eyes fell on Dora's portrait. He rose, chose a good angle, and inspected the picture carefully.

"Beautiful likeness!" said he, "full of poetry—modelling perfect. It is simply quivering with life—and what lovely flesh colour! There is not a man in England that can paint flesh like Grantham—no, not one that comes up to his ankle. Yet, with the most brilliant future before him, with the foremost place among the painters of the day close at hand, and certain to be a Royal Academician before he is forty—here is a man to whom artistic fame does not suffice."

Without noticing it he had approached the door leading to the garden. He opened it. The lilacs and hawthorns were in bloom, and whiffs of delicious scents were wafted into the studio.

"Who would imagine," thought he, "that in this peaceful retreat, where the rustling of the trees is the only sound to be heard, a man was to be found who had invented a projectile likely to revolutionise modern warfare!"

Philip entered hurriedly.

"Ah, my dear de Lussac—no news yet?"

"No! the Commission is to-day sitting in Paris at the War Office. There is every hope of a favourable decision, I believe."

"Not so loud," said Philip, "not so loud; Dora might hear you. She knows nothing about it. Ah, my dear fellow, I have worked day and night to perfect that shell. The mechanism is so simple and yet so precise, that, by winding up the little spring, the shell will burst without necessarily striking any object on the ground or in the air, at any portion of its course, exactly so many seconds as is wished after it has been fired. The usefulness of the shell in the open field or against fortified positions is obvious."

"That is so! in every case the experiment has proved entirely successful; and we wonder how it is the invention was not immediately bought by the English Government."

"Do you think the Commission will soon arrive at a decision?"

"To-day, probably," replied de Lussac, "very likely in a few hours. We are expecting every minute a telegram from Paris."

"If they should buy it!" said Philip dreamily.

"Well, then, you will be a wealthy man!"

"Shall I?" exclaimed Philip, his eyes shining with joy—"shall I be rich? My dear de Lussac, I am quite satisfied with my lot. I earn more than I want. But my wife, my Dora—I want to be rich for her sake. She was brought up surrounded with every luxury. Six years ago, she left the house of a wealthy and generous father to share the life of a struggling artist. She never once complained, but has been happy and has made me the happiest of men. She has sat constantly by my easel, inspiring my brush by her sweet presence, and encouraging me by her constant and discriminating praise. To better appreciate my work, she has set to work herself, and has had two pictures hung at the Royal Academy, which have been splendidly noticed. How she has helped me! Sometimes she would come and put her arms on my shoulders and say, 'Go on, Philip, you are on the road to fame.' What a wife! Yes," said he, with earnestness and warmth, "I want wealth, but God is my witness that it is for her that I aspire to riches."

"Still in love, I see, cher ami, hein? It is possible then to be in love with one's wife after six years, six long years, of marriage."

"Still in love! Why, I am only now beginning to love her as she deserves. Oh, that wealth may enable me to make her still happier!"

"Amen," said de Lussac, and he turned again to the picture.

"I think this portrait is delightful," said he; "you can never have done a better piece of work than this!"

"Yes! I am fairly satisfied with it," said Philip; "it is like her, is it not? My wife with a bunch of pansies in her hand."

"I don't see the pansies," remarked de Lussac.

"No! I shall put them in presently. I shall finish the picture this afternoon."

"I see," said de Lussac, "that Madame Grantham will have the bunch of pansies in her hand, and that she will look lovingly at them."

"Yes, it is her favourite flower," replied Philip, "and mine too. There was a bed of pansies growing just under her window in that beautiful country house where I met her for the first time and where I courted her. She tended them herself, and called them 'her family.' Before entering the house, I would always pluck one and place it in my buttonhole. When it was faded, I gave it to her. It is utter nonsense, I know; but, after all, happiness is made up of little foolish trifles of that sort."

"The Anglo-Saxons!" said de Lussac—"a practical and yet sentimental race."

Philip went to a bureau and, opening a drawer, took out a little packet carefully tied up.

"Here they are," said he, "her family."

And he replaced the packet with great care.

"This is charming, quite romantic," cried de Lussac, "perfectly idyllic! You know, you are a curious mixture, mon cher ami. Fancy your inventive genius turning to an instrument of war that will make widows of wives who perhaps once had such a 'family.'"

"Oh, if I thought that!" exclaimed Philip.

"You would beg the Commission to kindly return you your shell," suggested de Lussac, with a wink.

"Hardly," said Philip, smiling; "I am too near the goal to do that."

"I think I had better be off now," said de Lussac, looking at his watch. "I am preventing you from working."

"Not at all, my dear fellow. I have, it is true, to finish this portrait to-day; but I have plenty of time. I will go and put on my working-jacket. Dora will be down in a minute … only, dear boy, do not mention the shell, will you? Not a word about it!"

De Lussac, left alone, could not control his curiosity. The drawer in which the pansies had been placed was only half shut. He took the packet in his hand and gave way to hearty laughter at the expense of Philip and Dora.

"Well! I'll be hanged," said he, "if ever a woman makes me save some withered old flowers tied in pink ribbon, like a box of chocolates."

If he had only looked round at the garden door, while indulging in these reflections, he would have seen Dora come into the studio.

Dora was radiant, in a pretty simple morning gown, which accentuated her severe and classical beauty. Her large hazel eyes, encircled with long lashes, had an expression of exquisite sweetness; but they were also capable of making any man, who would dare look into them with any other sentiment than that of profound respect, sink into the ground. Her haughty mouth, with its short upper lip, almost Austrian, betrayed a proud, susceptible, and ardent nature. She had the consciousness of her beauty and intellectual worth. The smallest underhand act filled her with repugnance. On seeing de Lussac with the packet of flowers in his hand and the drawer still open, she hardly knew whether to laugh or treat him with contempt. The corner of her mouth turned slightly up and, with a little mocking smile which completely disconcerted the young diplomatist, she said—

"Well, Monsieur de Lussac, and how are you?"

"How are you, chère madame," answered he in an embarrassed manner.

"Very well, thank you. I thought I heard Philip."

"He is in there, changing his coat." And, remarking that Dora had brought in a handful of pansies, he added—

"More pansies?"

"Why more? Ah! that is true, you have some also, I see."

De Lussac reddened to the tips of his ears.

"Yes! A minute ago Philip was telling me the history of your 'little family,' and when he went out I could not resist the temptation of taking another peep at the little packet that he had left in my hand, and which contains the prologue of your love affairs."

Seeing himself caught in the act he did not hesitate to tell this little fib, so as to reinstate himself in Dora's good graces. She was taken in by it.

"Give the packet to me; you are a very wicked man—these are not for the profane; and Philip is still more wicked than you are to show them to you."

She put the packet back again. She was vexed, almost humiliated. Why had Philip mentioned the story of the pansies to Monsieur de Lussac? It could interest no one, except the two lovers, who had thus repeated their vows. Why had Philip shown him the packet? In her eyes, it was an almost ungentlemanly act. She passed a hand across her forehead, as if to brush away the ideas that came to her mind, and smiled good-humouredly once more.

"I believe you are jealous," said she gaily.

"Not a bit—I am disgusted. Two people supposed to be sensible, billing and cooing over a package of old flowers, after being married, let me see—how long?"

"Six years to-day."

"And after six years of marriage you are still in the region of romance? Will you allow a bachelor, an intimate friend of your husband's, to congratulate you with all his heart? I declare I almost envy your happiness."

"Well, get married yourself!" exclaimed Dora; "it is very easy."

"Not for the world," said he, in a bantering tone. "I am too fond of woman in the plural to ever love one in the singular. Besides, I could never marry a woman unless I could respect her."

"Naturally."

"Well!" exclaimed de Lussac, laughing heartily, "I don't believe I could respect a woman who would be willing to marry me."

"Oh! come, you are like most Frenchmen," said Dora, "not so bad as you would make people believe. You will succumb to the temptation all in good time. You will marry, you will love your wife, and, what is more, you will make the most docile of husbands. It is the most recalcitrant of you that generally become the model husbands in the end."

"Heaven forbid! I will succumb to every temptation you like to name except that one; if I ever find myself married I shall have been chloroformed before the ceremony. For fear of giving way to this temptation I will stick to all the others, in case they should forsake me—you see, I am a vagabond pure and simple."

"Women love vagabonds—many do at any rate. You will find a hundred for one that will have you."

"A hundred perhaps—one never," said de Lussac.

"And when you are old, who will occupy the other side of the chimney corner? A chimney has two corners."

"I know it," said de Lussac; "but there is also the middle, where I shall be very happy and comfortable—that is better still. No, no, long live Liberty!"

"Pure selfishness—and besides, conjugal life is the most comfortable."

"Undeceive yourself, madame; one lives as well at the club. One dines better at a restaurant, where for a small tip one may grumble and blow up the waiter to one's heart's content."

"You can do as much in your own house, and blow up your wife without its costing you a farthing."

The light-hearted gaiety of the young man amused Dora. A woman, although she does not countenance that love of independence in her husband, admires it in other men. I feel inclined to believe that women have a mingled feeling of admiration and respect for the man who has not been 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—

Pansies for thought—

Love lies bleeding.

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.