As Hope Wayne entered she was impressed by the spaciousness of the room, the chastened light, and the coruscations of rich color hanging upon the walls.
"It's like the garden of the Hesperides," she said, gayly--"such mellow shadows, and such gorgeous colors, like those of celestial fruits.

I don't wonder you paint poetic truth." Arthur Merlin smiled.
"Now you shall judge," said he.
Hope Wayne seated herself in the chair where Lawrence Newt had been sitting not two hours before, and settled herself to enjoy the spectacle she anticipated; for she had a secret faith in Arthur's genius, and she meant to purchase this great work of poetic truth at her own valuation.
Arthur placed the picture upon the easel and drew the curtain from it, stepping aside as before to watch her face.
The airy smile upon Hope Wayne's face faded instantly.

The blood rushed to her hair.

But she did not turn her eyes, nor say a word.

The moment she felt she could trust her voice, she asked, gravely, without looking at Arthur, "What is it ?" "It is Diana and Endymion," replied the painter.
She looked at it for a long time, half-closing her eyes, which clung to the face of Endymion.
"I have not made Diana tender enough," thought Arthur, mournfully, as he watched her.
"How soundly he sleeps!" said Hope Wayne, at length, as if she had been really trying to wake him.
"You think he merely sleeps ?" asked Arthur.
"Certainly; why not ?" "Oh! I thought so too.