Perhaps Julian Goetze did not willingly abide by the somewhat fallacious reasoning of his friend. It is more than probable that each time he succumbed to the savage elements of his nature, he did so with reluctance and shame, with subsequent remorse, and good resolutions formed a score of times, perhaps, to be as often broken.

As the weeks went by he became more and more involved in this singular affair. In a way he had found it possible, as his friend had once suggested, to be in love with two women at one time.

When he was with Eva Delorme his love for the pure, beautiful girl seemed to take entire possession of his life. Evelin March, for the time, was as hateful to him as his own weakness, or was wholly forgotten.

When in the presence of Evelin March his better self shrank away before the fierce heredity within him, and the face of Eva Delorme became only a dim, haunting ghost that taunted him with his treachery.

Of the lives of these two he knew absolutely nothing. The evident distress which his reference to relatives and friends had occasioned Eva during their first meeting, had caused him carefully to avoid the subject afterward; and the other, who had never referred to her family, he had not cared to know. He had never even considered whether she was wife, maid or widow, until he suddenly became aware that the sentiment he had awakened within her was not, as he had at first supposed, a passing fancy, but a fierce passion of jealous and tyrannical love. She no longer rallied him, and parried his compliments with her light, pointed sarcasm, as she had done at first, but assumed an unmistakable bearing of ownership and possession—questioning him closely regarding other sitters and female acquaintances—while he writhed helplessly in the exquisite misery of a spell which he felt himself powerless to break.

Thus far he had never surrendered himself entirely to this passion. More than once he had hesitated on the very brink of the precipice. Whether it was the haunting face of Eva Delorme that stayed him, or something in the manner of the other, he could not tell.

One day he suddenly caught her in his arms. She suffered his embrace for a moment, then drew away from him.

"When we are married, Paul," she said, tenderly, "I will take you to Italy, where in some beautiful villa we will give ourselves up wholly to our love. I am rich, Paul, rich; and it is all yours, but we must wait."

He turned white and was silent. The thought of marriage with this woman had never entered his head. He had already asked Eva Delorme to be his wife. She had long since confessed her love for him, but had deferred her answer from week to week, and with such evident distress of mind that the young artist felt that a secret sorrow lay heavily upon her life. He longed to fly with her to some far country, away from it all, and from the dark shadows that encompassed his own.

The similarity of features which he had at first noticed in his two sitters was at times almost forgotten; at others it had recurred to him and haunted him like a nightmare. More than once he had imagined he saw the fleeting something in one woman that reminded him of the other. He had dallied over the portraits, making them photographically minute for comparison. He had hesitated guiltily about showing either of these to the other woman. He had sometimes longed, and always dreaded, to see them side by side in person. They did not always come at their appointed time, and he was in constant terror lest they should meet in the studio; and yet the thought had in it a fascination for him that made him feverish for its realization. It was strange that they had never met in his rooms—he did not realize, perhaps, how strange.

As the months slipped away, and he had become more and more distracted by the contending forces that were eating deeply into his life, he had grown almost indifferent to his curiosity and only dreaded their meeting.

It was now October. The portraits had been practically finished long since. Day after day he had resolved to send that of Evelin March to the dealer for framing. He felt that he could then break away from her. But still he had hesitated and lingered, and now, when in a moment of recklessness he had taken a step nearer the brink of the precipice, she had spoken to him of their marriage. The idea stunned him; he could not reply. She believed his emotion had been caused by her rebuff, and laid her hand gently on his arm.

"Don't be angry, Paul," she whispered.

He had never seen her so subdued and beautiful as she was at that moment. He was nearer to loving her than he had ever been.

"Yes," he said, with some agitation, "we must—wait."

That night after supper he sought Harry Lawton, and unburdened himself.

"What shall I do, Harry?" he said, piteously; "what must I do?"

"Marry Eva Delorme and take a year's trip to Europe."

"But Eva hesitates—she has never yet given me a decided answer."

"Insist upon it. Then take her to the preacher at once, and fly."

"Oh, Harry, what a villain I am! Evelin is really in love with me, and I have given her just cause. I never saw her look as she did to-day."

"Nonsense! She is a schemer and an actress. I did not suppose she wanted to marry you, but since that is her idea I can see right through her. This being the case, and your determination to marry the other fixed, the sooner you do it and get away, the better."

"I am afraid you are right, Harry; there seems to be no other course. I haven't the moral courage to tell her the truth."

"No need of it, whatever. It wouldn't help matters in the least. Just marry and go away quietly, and don't return until you get ready. If you need money draw on me at sight."

"Thank you, Harry. I expect Eva soon. I am going to put the final touches on her picture, and I will urge my suit. If she accepts me I will take her away at once. Evelin's picture is ready for framing; I will send it to the dealer's to-morrow. I wish to God I could get away before she comes again!"

"Why not? You have nothing to keep you. If the girl really loves you she will marry you out of hand, and be only too glad to cut loose from all unpleasant associations. And now let's take a last look at the pictures," he said.

They had been walking slowly in the direction of Goetze's cottage. They entered now, and the artist lighted the gas. Then he arranged the portraits of the two women as he had done for his friend's inspection nearly a half-year previous. Both were thinking of that evening now. How long ago it seemed. Harry sat silent before them for a long time.

"They are wonderful portraits, Goetze," he said, at length; "but, do you know, it doesn't seem to me that they have quite the artistic value of the first sketches."

"You are right, Harry; they are too minute. I shall destroy some of that to-morrow."

The other was silent. After a long pause he said, thoughtfully, "There is something— I can't tell where it is, either; but it is certainly there."

"You refer to the resemblance?"

"Yes; it is hardly that, however."

"I have thought very little about it lately. It troubled me terribly for a while."

"Well, good-night, Julian," said Lawton, rising. "If there are to be any orange-blossoms, I suppose I am best man."

"Yes, Harry. Good-night!"

Two days later, when Eva Delorme came to the studio, the artist thought he had never seen her so beautiful.

And now the whiteness of his own soul was turned to view. He resembled as little the man who had trembled before Evelin March, as Evelin March was like this beautiful being before him.

With all the ardor and fervid eloquence of his nature he urged his suit; and she, tearful and trembling before him, half consented. He caught her to his breast and covered her face with kisses.

"My darling—my darling," he murmured, "we will leave this smoky, dingy city; I will take you to a beautiful land where the flowers never fade and the air is forever filled with their fragrance. Where the blue skies of an eternal summer are above us, and the blue waves of a whispering sea shall lull us to peace. There is a tiny island in the Mediterranean on the coast of France. I was there once; it is like heaven. I will take you there. Say that you will go, sweetheart; we will start to-day."

The girl lifted her face to his, and kissed him on the forehead.

"It would be heaven, indeed, Julian; but—we must wait."

The artist started and grew pale. Her final words had been the same as those used by Evelin March. She did not seem to notice his emotion, or mistook its cause.

"You know that I love you, Julian," she continued, "and I will do anything for your happiness; but—oh, Julian"—

She burst into tears and hid her face on his shoulder. He felt that some mystery of grief weighed upon her, and he longed to urge her confidence, but refrained. He soothed her gently with tender words and caresses. By and by she grew calm.

"Julian," she said, "I am in no condition to-day to give you a sitting. I will come to-morrow, and then—I will give you a final answer, and—oh, my love, do not urge me further to-day; I—I cannot endure it."

Then suddenly throwing her arms about his neck she pressed one fierce kiss upon his lips and hurried from the room.

After she was gone the artist walked up and down the studio for a long time in deep thought. He was wildly happy in her love, and yet he was troubled. It was strange that her words should have been the same as those of Evelin March. Her manner, too, during the last moment had been unusual. Something about it had jarred him—almost reminded him of the other woman. What was it between these two?

By and by, he noticed something white lying on the floor. It was a woman's handkerchief—a bit of cambric and lace exhaling the delicate odor of violets. He pressed it to his lips repeatedly, and whispered her name over and over, then hid it away in his bosom. He had not noticed, in the dim light, that in one corner, in small, delicate letters, were the initials, E.M.D.

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