the days at the atelier had now a new interest for both students, and their work was manifestly the better for it. to martha these days were filled with a glorious delight, which seemed to give her all that her nature craved; and if it had not been for sad thoughts of her brother and his loneliness, she would have felt that she could ask for nothing.

to have the princess painting near her, and to be able to look up and see her beautiful figure, with its sinuous grace, posed before her easel, and to receive from her now and then a brilliant smile of mutual comprehension, was quite enough of personal bliss for martha keene.

martha had an ardent and romantic temperament, but she seemed to be capable of satisfying its needs vicariously. there undoubtedly are such women, though the like has possibly never existed in the other sex. for instance, it was a continual battle with her now to put down the temptation, which constantly assailed her, of imagining a meeting, an attraction, and finally a union between the brother who realized her romantic ideal of man and the friend who realized his complement in woman’s form. she knew it was impossible. she knew that harold would never marry; and she even realized that if he could love again, after the manner in which he had loved one woman, he would, by that fact, compel her to lower her standard either of love or of him.

and yet martha felt that the meeting and blending of these two lives would, if she could have seen it, have satisfied every need of her heart. she believed that her pleasure and contentment in looking on at such a union as this would give her the greatest joy that could be for her—would indeed, in a way, give her the feeling of satisfied love.

it was very hard to put down these imaginings; but she told herself that it must be done. harold’s life and love had been given once, and she knew he was right in saying that they were not his to give again; and on the princess’s part, no doubt the idea would{49} be a wild suggestion, indeed. martha did not know what rigid laws of etiquette and convention might not bind the princess; and condescending as the latter had chosen to be with regard to herself, she felt that this beautiful lady would never do anything unworthy of her caste. her husband, whether she had loved him or not, had no doubt been a great prince, whose name and title the woman on whom he had bestowed them would never consent to debase. the thing was hopeless and wrong, of course, and the idea must be put away from her. but it was hard to do, with her hero constantly in her mind, and her heroine constantly before her eyes.

one day, after an unusually hard morning’s work, the princess invited martha to go home to lunch with her, and to spend the afternoon at the louvre, looking together at the pictures which they had so often enjoyed apart.

when they reached the apartment in the rue presbourg, the princess was informed that her aunt had already finished her second breakfast, which she took with the regularity of clockwork, not depending upon the comings and goings of the rather erratic person who was the other member of the family. this the princess explained lightly, as she led the way to the dining-room. the servants by this time all knew martha; and they looked upon her, as the friend of their mistress, with the most amiable glances. not speaking the russian language, martha could show her good will only by a pleasant smile, in return for the evident pleasure which they showed in serving her.

the princess threw her wrap backward over the chair, as she sat at the head of the round table, with her slender figure against a background of dark sable, and her head, in its large plumed hat, standing out from a halo of many-hued old stained-glass in the window behind. martha, sitting opposite, fell into an unconsciously intent scrutiny of her face.

it was certainly safe, martha thought, to call this face beautiful, both for feature and character. the eyes were large, dark, brilliant, and fervidly suggestive. one wondered what those eyes had seen, were seeing, and were capable of discovering for others. the hair was a brilliant, waving brown, arranged in a loose mass that was still firm and lovely in its outline—hair, as martha thought, that

it must be sweet to touch with fingers and with lips. also the girl thought one might well long to prove by touch whether that white skin was as smooth and fine as it looked. the firm, short nose was definitely pointed, and tilted upward, slightly lifting with it the short upper lip. her chin was bewitching—at once strong and alluring. the mouth was very individual, and, as martha studied it, she concluded that if she could tell why it was so charming, half the charm would be gone. for the first time it occurred to her to wonder how old the princess was.

“you are wondering how old i am!” said the princess, almost taking the girl’s breath away.

“i never knew anything so strange!” exclaimed martha. “it was the very thought i had in my mind.”

“certainly, i read it there! i can do that, sometimes, with people who are very sympathetic to me. i fancy it would be rather dangerous for you to do any very private thinking in my presence. i sometimes read, too, without reading aloud. i think i have read some of your thoughts lately, without your suspecting it.{52}”

she looked at martha, over her cup of bouillon, and smiled. martha felt herself blushing, as she wondered if that persistent and dominating thought about her brother, which had been so often in her mind of late, could have been perceived by this wonderful being. it frightened her so that she quickly changed the subject, and the remainder of the meal passed in less personal talk.

when they were seated in the princess’s coupé, a little later, driving past the arc de triomphe, martha saw her companion turning her head to look at it with lingering, earnest eyes.

“i always look at the arc whenever i can,” she said; “and it always has something to say to me. its expression of strong beauty and repose always makes me feel that what is, is right. if i am happy, it makes me feel that joy is both good and permanent; and even when in times of unhappiness it makes me feel that sadness is permanent, it somehow seems to tell me that that too is good. did you ever stand quite close to it and look up?”

“no,” said martha.

“we must, some day, together. it will give you a new sensation.{53}”

“i always thought that it appeared better at a distance,” said martha.

“so it does, in a way; but the impression is different. i love it from the place de la concorde, when the horse-chestnuts are in bloom. then it looks like a magnificent image of beneficence, stretching out two great arms to take in all those people, in carriages and on foot, who are thronging the champs-élysées, its body vague and distant in the clouds. that’s a sufficiently fantastic thought for you, if you like; but it is one that has comforted me. i love paris. it is the only city that has ever seemed to me to be lovable. its streets are so gay and clean, and the faces of the people one meets, along here at least, are so good-humored and intelligent. i love this mixture of fashion and ruralness. look at the swells and the peasants driving side by side! look at those white-aproned men drawing handcarts, that mail-coach coming alongside, those old peasants in their covered wagons, and that superb mounted policeman with his gorgeous trappings! how friendly and at home they all seem! even that omnibus, with its three white percherons abreast, looks sociable and friendly by the side of the steppeurs of the{54} haute école. oh, it’s all very human and charming; or is it that you humanize me, and make me feel its charm more than i have done for many a day?”

she was still in this delightful humor when they reached the louvre, and made their way at once to pay their homage to the venus of milo. they did not say much as they looked at her, moving slowly from place to place to get the different points of view. each knew what the other felt, and words seemed out of place. presently the princess said:

“i have a fancy to try an experiment. let’s name her! what i mean is, if that were a real woman, what would you think the name best suited to her?”

martha smiled comprehendingly, and looked at the statue with a gaze of deep concentration. this changed, after a moment, into a smile, as she said:

“i’ve named her. it’s so absurd, however,” she went on, “to give such a name as i’ve chosen to that ancient greek statue, that i’m almost ashamed to tell it.”

“you needn’t be,” said the princess, smiling too; “for i’ve got a name about which i{55} have exactly the same feeling. come; i’ll say mine first. it’s gloriana.”

“and mine is georgiana! how odd that they should be so much alike!”

“isn’t it? it’s delightful, though; for it shows that there’s something in my theory of names, and that this statue has made almost exactly the same impression on us. i’m eager now to name the winged victory. come; let’s go and look at her.”

they hurried away to the foot of the wide staircase, where, looking up, they saw the magnificent creature with her great wings spread.

after standing before her in silence a few moments, the princess exclaimed suddenly:

“oh, have you named her yet? a perfect name for her has come to me!”

“and to me, too—perfect!” said martha. “how many syllables has yours?”

“one.”

“so has mine!” said the other, breathlessly. “now let’s count three, and say the name.”

simultaneously they said: “one, two, three—ruth!”

then they looked at each other with an excited delight that the passers-by must have{56} thought rather amazing even for two artists looking at the victory.

“it’s the most wonderful thing i ever heard of,” said martha. “don’t you feel positively creepy?”

“i should think i did! little cold chills are running all over me. oh, how nice it is that we can think and feel together in this way!”

her face, as she spoke, was glowingly beautiful; and martha returned her gaze with a look which expressed what no words could possibly have done.