The Argosy — page 194: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Winifred Power. 177 not hurt a fly, and she does not perceive your ridicule, because ridicule finds no place in her own simple and kindly heart. She is full of reverence for the art which we all profess to follow, and although she never can succeed, because ungifted, her failure is a nobler thing than the facile degradation of talent which we pre- tend to honour as success.” ‘Ts that intended forme?” flashed out Marie Duchéne. “For anybody whom the cap may fit,” answered Winifred coldly. Then there was a sudden cry of “ Hush,” and the angry group turned, to find Mademoiselle Marthe standing behind Winifred, within hearing. She was very pale, and her aged baby-face had the pained look of her darker hours. “‘T went out to buy galettes for you. Marie said she was hungry.” She held out her offering mechanically, as mechanically as she had spoken the words. One or two of the girls had the grace to look ashamed. Marie, with an exaggerated air of gratitude, sprang forward to embrace the little artist; but Mademoiselle Marthe drew back. ‘IT do not want your kisses, my dear,” she said gently. ‘ Some- how, they have a flavour of your praise.” , She never showed anybody her sketches again; and, indeed, by degrees she ceased to make them. The lesson had been too cruel, and the memory of its pain, abiding with her, gradually quenched the faint, flickering flame of her belief in her own powers. She did not overwhelm her champion with any expressions of grati- tude, but showed her affection by a hundred small signs. If they were together in the gallery, she was never so happy as when allowed to scrape Winifred’s palette, or wash her brushes, or run down to buy her luncheon. ‘The snow had hardly melted from the ground before a bunch of sweet-smelling violets was left in the early morning, with the concierge, at Winifred’s house; and one Christmas Day appeared a piping bullfinch which Mademoiselle Marthe had tamed and taught through many patient weeks. In vain the girl sought to return these kindnesses. Mademoiselle Marthe would accept nothing from her, and contrived moreover to give to her rejection a gentle dignity, in touching contrast with her usual humble ways. Winifred herself was long before she ventured to penetrate to the tiny room which the little old maid called her home. When she did at last see it, she was agreeably surprised by it, for, although modest to the verge of bareness, it had nothing sordid. The plain, scanty furniture was scrupulously clean, and the windows were bright with flowers and birds. ‘And you have lived here all alone for more than twenty years !” exclaimed Winifred, wondering what the unspoken chronicle of the long, lonely life had been. ‘‘ You have friends—visitors ? ” “T have friends—yes. Everybody is very kind to me. But I have no gentlemen or lady visitors, if that is what you mean. At VOL, XXXV, N GOnlGaooks (GO mn