"Dana — A. Dana," mused Pisk. "Can't be Augustus."
"Do you know," put in little Tresset, "I fancy it is."
"Yes," added Colton, disgustedly. "The foreigners are doubtless fascinated by his unique and monumental stupidity. They probably regard him as an art-freak and pay tribute to his dullness."
"They're a lot of blank fools over there, anyway," Fisk rejoined.
But when toward the end of the twelve-month McArthurs, who had been over, returned from Paris, he struck us all dumb by announcing that A. Dana was not only our Augustus but that he justly deserved his rapidly growing fame.
"You know," said Tresset, who was the first to find his tongue after this amazing piece of information had been imparted to us, "he always could draw, and his handling of color was not bad."
"Well," resumed McArthurs, "he has somehow caught the soul of the thing, as they say over there, and the results are simply marvelous. I'm not given to rhap- sodizing, as you perhaps know, and I don't go in for art as a rule, but his picture of the young mother dreaming of her child's future while she rocks the cradle is a thing I cannot get out of my mind."
Fisk regarded him meditatively. "Who sat for the mother in that picture?" he asked, and everybody save McArtnurs smiled. McArthurs pretended not to hear. Fisk went on.
"His wife was right after all. Love is not always blind, it seems. Eh, Colton? Discerning the latent spark with the eye of true affection, she has fanned it to a flame."
In the course of time the young couple returned to us, and Augustus set up a studio in the elegant little place they took possession of on B— street.
If Mrs. Dana had been charming as Miss Sargent, she was irresistible now. It was perfectly plain to everybody that she adored her handsome, stupid husband. There was something absurdly touching in her devotion and in her silent insist- ence upon his being recognized as a genius. Fisk declared that she would breathe for him if it were possible. As for Gus, he appeared to take her tender worship as a matter of course. He was no doubt fond
of her in his dull fashion. He had not im- proved, so far as any of us were able to discern. His success in art had not bright- ened his mental faculties to any noticeable extent. He was the same well-dressed blockhead that we had known and ridi- culed in his bachelor days, before he had acquired greatness.
"Do you know," said Tom Tresset, 'if it wasn't quite out of the question, I'd be inclined to suspect his wife of painting his pictures herself."
"It is quite out of the question," growled McArthurs, glaring savagely. "It's well you put in that saving clause."
"Certainly, certainly," said Fisk, hasten- ing to pour oil on the troubled waters. "Mrs. Dana is beyond suspicion. But he draws his inspiration from her. Nobody who knows them doubts that."
"Nobody wants to," grumbled McAr- thurs, and departed gloomily. Mac was daily growing less companionable. He had almost entirely dropped out of our little circle. He said "gossip" bored him. As if we gossiped! It was our custom to meet in a retired corner and discuss mat- ters in general — but gossip? never!
The truth is, McArthurs had been hard hit, and he did not get over it. He al- lowed his disappointment to sour him.
However, we all understood the situa- tion and sympathized in a way. But we agreed tacitly that Mrs. Dana was not the woman to heal the wounds which she had unconsciously inflicted as Miss Sargent. And we did homage to the colossal pow- ers of inspiration that could put life into the work of that inanimate clod, Augustus Dana. We were dumb with admiration before his beautiful canvases, where the figures seemed to live and breath, and the color was a dream.
It was apparent to every one that Mrs. Dana had lost much of the splendid phys- ical vitality that had been one of the charms of her girlhood, but she had gained in spirituality and in that subtle some- thing about which the poets rave. She was almost frail in figure, but full of an intense fire that seemed to burn more clearly day by day.
They had been married about three years, maybe longer, when Dana began work upon what, it speedily became noised about, was to be his masterpiece. Nobody
