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He choked with an intolerable sense of shame for himself, for the artist, and for Ninitta. A terrible anguish wrung his heart as he looked across the crowded gallery gay with lights, with the rich dresses, with laughter, and with the beauty of women, to where hung the picture of the mother of his boy, an image of sensuous enticement.
"My model Ninitta is very fond of him, and chose to be jealous of his praise of my work. It might have all gone over without an outburst, I suppose, if she had not had her attention called to the fact that I had modeled his head for December. Why she had never happened to notice it I don't know; she was in the studio constantly." "Not when he was there?" queried Dr.
"It is such a glorious morning, and Ninitta has kept me away from my work long enough for me to be very glad to return to it." "What of Ninitta?" he asked, a shadow coming over his fine face. "She is not still with you?" "No, but she is coming to pose this morning, though I hardly think she is strong enough."
Ninitta was much the same in outward appearance as upon the previous day, but between this morning's mental state and that of yesterday there was a great gulf. The Italian's character was a strange if not wholly unique mixture of simplicity and worldly wisdom.
I'd forgotten all about him." Ninitta rose from her position and hurried toward the screen behind which she dressed. "Don't let him in," she said. "He knows me." The bell rang again, as they stood looking at each other. "I will try to send him off," Arthur said. "Dress as quickly as you can." She retreated behind the screen while he went to the door and unlocked it. Instantly Irons stepped inside.
She speculated whether it were possible that Arthur were secretly painting the portrait of his friend's wife, to produce it as a surprise to them all. She said to herself that Ninitta naturally knew models, and might easily have enough of a feeling of comradeship remaining from the time when she had been a model herself, to lend or give them articles of dress.
With her old time self-control, it was Helen who spoke first, and her words recalled him from the past and its passion, to the present and its duty. "Tell me how Ninitta is," she said, "and the boy. I do so want to see that wonderful boy." The sculptor commanded his voice by a powerful effort. "They are both well," he answered.
Ninitta was found in a room tolerably clean for that portion of the city, the old fruit woman who was its mistress having retained more of the tidiness of thrifty peasant ancestors than most of her class.
She wouldn't enjoy it, and she wouldn't feel at home, even if she'd go with me." Helen smiled with mingled amusement and wistfulness. "No," she responded. "I can't exactly fancy Ninitta in society. She'd be quite out of her element.
The grim humor of the situation tickled his fancy, and in the very flood of death he faintly smiled at the irony of fate which thus balanced accounts. And this flash of cynical amusement was the last gleam of his earthly consciousness. A SYMPATHY OF WOE. Titus Andronicus; iii. 1. Fortunately Ninitta had made no secret of her departure except to conceal it from her husband.
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