But he felt the supreme importance of self-control, and he was
outwardly collected as he asked,--
"What did Helen say to him?"
"She said," answered Edith, with an exquisite note of sadness in her
voice, "that you must be making a portrait for a surprise to her
husband."
The artist's heart gave a bound and he caught eagerly at this
suggestion, which afforded him a means of escape.
"Helen is too shrewd by half," he said, with a smile. "It is for
Grant's birthday and nobody was to know. As a matter of fact," he
added, his invention quickly leaping to the refinements of details in
his falsehood, "I fancy Ninitta really wants it for the _bambino_, as
she calls him."
He smiled with relief as he went on, and rose again to his feet.
"Deception," he observed, with his natural lightness of manner, "is the
bane of married life, but marital felicity is impossible without
discreet reserves. It wasn't my secret, you see, so I didn't feel at
liberty to tell you."
"You were perfectly right," she answered. "The truth is," she
continued, hesitatingly, "I was afraid you had persuaded Ninitta to sit
for the _Fatima_, you know you said once that she was the only model in
Boston who was what you wanted."
"Did I say that? What a dreadful memory you have. I should expect Grant
to make a burnt sacrifice of me if I had beguiled her into such an
indiscretion.
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