Presently, in her desperation, when the artist did not return, she seated herself at the table to put upon paper, as best she could, the things she had come to say.
Her letter finished, she looked at her watch.

Calling the Chinaman, she asked for a key to the studio, explaining that she wished to see her picture.

She still hoped for the artist's return and that her letter would not be necessary.

She hoped, too, that in her portrait, which she had not yet seen, she might find some evidence of the painter's passion for her.
She had not forgotten his saying that he would put upon the canvas what he thought of her, nor could she fail to recall his manner and her interpretation of it as he had worked upon the picture.
In the studio, she stood before the easel, scarce daring to draw the curtain.

But, calling up in her mind the emotions and thoughts of the hours she had spent in that room alone with the artist, she was made bold by her reestablished belief in his passion and by her convictions that were founded upon her own desires.