"If it were worth while to tell you the truth, I would say that my conduct when alone with Mr.King has been as proper as--as when I am alone with you." The taunt maddened him.

Interrupted by spells of coughing--choking, gasping, fighting for breath, his eyes blazing with hatred and lust, mingling his words with oaths and curses--he raged at her.

"And do you think--that, because I am so nearly dead,--I do not resent what--I saw, to-day?
Do you think--I am so far gone that I cannot--understand--your interest in this man,--after--watching you, together, all--the afternoon?
Has there been any one--in his studio, except you two, when--he was painting you in that dress--which you--designed for his benefit?
Oh, no, indeed,--you and your--genius could not be interrupted,--for the sake--of his art.

His art! Great God!--was there ever such a damnable farce--since hell was invented?
Art!--you--_you_--_you_!--" crazed with jealous fury, he pointed at her with his yellow, shaking, skeleton fingers; and struggled to raise his voice above that rasping whisper until the cords of his scrawny neck stood out and his face was distorted with the strain of his effort--"_You!_ painted as a--modest Quaker Maid,--with all the charm of innocence,--virtue, and religious piety in your face.

_You!_ And that picture will be exhibited--and written about--as a work of _art!_ You'll pull all the strings,--and use all your influence,--and the thing--will be received as a--masterpiece." "And," she added calmly, "you will write a check--and lie, as you did this afternoon." Without heeding her remark, he went on,--"You know the picture is worthless.