"Here's an artist," he remarked, "whose contempt for nature is apparently not the result of familiarity."
The artist and his model waited in silence, watching the spectators. Few people noticed them. A fellow-artist, coming up to congratulate Mr. Stanton, detected the slight resemblance between Miss Wistar and the half-averted face in the picture, and felt wise.
"I don't care what the result is," Howard said at last, breaking a long pause. "I have put the very best of myself into that work."
His seriousness deepened the note of generalized tenderness in his voice. Helen had before mistaken a physical characteristic for emotion.
"All my hold on life is in that face. It stands for my entire aspiration, my ultimate hope."
Helen looked up quickly. She thought that Mr. Stanton was speaking about her. One little gloved hand slipped out toward him, but he did not see it. His eyes
