"Five months," replied the artist, with a resolute touch of his brush on the canvas, and without looking up.
"Will she ever become an artist—a real artist?"
"That depends on how she works."
"You do not think much of her at present, then?"
"She is but a beginner."
"She is sure to get on"—here he laughed—"on account of her looks. Perhaps not positively handsome, but very 'fetching'—eh?"
The painter frowned. "Is that the reason yon bought her picture?"
"Of course. I seldom buy a woman's work for any other reason."
"I think it a very bad one.
"Bah! you can't humbug me, Baring. You would not take such an interest in the girl, if she were a fright. Come, now, what, is her history? You may as well tell me." Here he looked mockingly at the painter, with half-closed eyes. "Do you really think, now, that she is so very poor?"
"I know nothing of her history or of her finances. She is a young lady whom I respect greatly. She is my sister's friend; but her affairs do not concern me."
"Don't they?" Again that evil smile crossed the Jew's face. "Some people might say they concerned you very much. Vous faites l'innocent, mon cher. It won't do with me."
Baring looked up. His cheek was flushed, and his steel-grey eyes flashed, as they crossed swords with Melchior's.
"I do not understand what you mean, Monsieur Melchior: but there are subjects upon which I permit no
