Yet he knew her as a natural, lovable woman, a mother who
had suffered and would suffer because of her love for her only child.
It was a paradox, like many other paradoxes of art.
The daughter--ah! perhaps she might better suit his style. She was
admirable in her madcap carelessness and exotic colouring. Decidedly he
would paint her when this picture was finished--if it ever would be.
Berenice avoided entering the studio during these sittings. She no
longer jested with her mother about the picture, and with Hubert she
preserved such an air of dignity that he fancied he had offended her. He
usually came to Villiers-le-Bel on an early train three or four times a
week and remained at Chalfontaine until ten o'clock. Never but once had
a severe storm forced him to stay overnight. Since the episode on the
wall he had not attempted any further advances. He felt happy in the
company of Elaine, and gazing into her large eyes rested his spirit. It
was true--he no longer played with ease the role of a soul-hunter. His
youth had been troubled by many adventures, many foolish ones, and now
he felt a calm in the midway of his life and that desire for domestic
ease which sooner or later overtakes all men.
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