The picture has been hanging about me for the last two or three years, as a sort of receptacle of waste ideas. It has been the victim of innumerable theories and experiments. But it seems to have survived them all. I suppose it possesses a certain amount of vitality.”

“Do you call it anything?”

“I called it originally after something I’d read—Browning’s poem, ‘My Last Duchess.’ Do you know it?”

“Perfectly.”

“I am ignorant of whether it’s an attempt to embody the poet’s impression of a portrait actually existing. But why should I care? This is simply an attempt to embody my own private impression of the poem, which has always had a strong hold on my fancy. I don’t know whether it agrees with your own impression and that of most readers. But I don’t insist upon the name. The possessor of the picture is free to baptize it afresh.”

The longer Lennox looked at the picture the more he liked it, and the deeper seemed to be the correspondence between the lady’s expression and that with which he had invested the heroine of Browning’s lines. The less accidental, too, seemed that element which Marian’s face and the face on the canvas possessed in common. He thought of the great poet’s noble lyric and of its exquisite significance, and of the physiognomy of the woman he loved having been chosen as the fittest exponent of that significance.

He turned away his head; his eyes filled with tears. “If I were possessor of the picture,” he said, finally, answering the artist’s last words, “I should feel tempted to call it by the name of a person of whom it very much reminds me.”

“Ah?” said Baxter; and then, after a pause—“a person in New York?”

It had happened, a week before, that, at her lover’s request, Miss Everett had gone in his company to a photographer’s and had been photographed in a dozen different attitudes. The proofs of these photographs had been sent home for Marian to choose from. She had made a choice of half a dozen—or rather Lennox had made it—and the latter had put them in his pocket, with the intention of stopping at the establishment and giving his orders. He now took out of his pocket-book and showed the painter one of the cards.

“I find a great resemblance,” said he, “between your Duchess and that young lady.”

The artist looked at the photograph. “If I am not mistaken,” he said, after a pause, “the young lady is Miss Everett.”

Lennox nodded assent.

His companion remained silent a few moments, examining the photograph with considerable interest; but, as Lennox observed, without comparing it with his picture.

“My Duchess very probably bears a certain resemblance to Miss Everett, but a not exactly intentional one,” he said, at last. “The picture was begun before I ever saw Miss Everett. Miss Everett, as you see—or as you know—has a very charming face, and, during the few weeks in which I saw her, I continued to work upon it. You know how a painter works—how artists of all kinds work: they claim their property wherever they find it. What I found to my purpose in Miss Everett’s appearance I didn’t hesitate to adopt; especially as I had been feeling about in the dark for a type of countenance which her face effectually realized. The Duchess was an Italian, I take it; and I had made up my mind that she was to be a blonde. Now, there is a decidedly southern depth and warmth of tone in Miss Everett’s complexion, as well as that breadth and thickness of feature which is common in Italian women. You see the resemblance is much more a matter of type than of expression. Nevertheless, I’m sorry if the copy betrays the original.”

“I doubt,” said Lennox, “whether it would betray it to any other perception than mine. I have the honor,” he added, after a pause, “to be engaged to Miss Everett. You will, therefore, excuse me if I ask whether you mean to sell your picture?”

“It’s already sold—to a lady,” rejoined the artist, with a smile; “a maiden lady, who is a great admirer of Browning.”

At this moment Gilbert returned. The two friends exchanged greetings, and their companion withdrew to a neighboring studio. After they had talked a while of what had happened to each since they parted, Lennox spoke of the painter of the Duchess and of his remarkable talent, expressing surprise that he shouldn’t have heard of him before, and that Gilbert should never have spoken of him.

“His name is Baxter—Stephen Baxter,” said Gilbert, “and until his return from Europe, a fortnight ago, I knew little more about him than you. He’s a case of improvement. I met him in Paris in ’62; at that time he was doing absolutely nothing. He has learned what you see in the interval.