Diva Thane, it is perhaps needless to say, was a child of the North. Her peculiar¹ type of beauty blossoms only out of soil, which, for half the year, withdraws its warmth into its deep heart, and wraps itself in a chill, white robe of snow. She had made her appearance in Savalla, about a twelvemonth before, unheralded and unknown, had rented the parlor² of a decayed aristocratic mansion³ as a studio, and had tacked⁴ on the door a card signifying to the public that she was a painter in oils. She had thenceforth been an example of that freedom and independence of life which Art makes possible for its votaries⁶, of either sex, as a compensation, in some sort, for the sacrifices that they are bound to make to her.

It soon became known that the Youles endorsed⁷ Miss Thane to the fullest extent, both socially and financially; else society might have given her a cool reception. But it could scarcely, in its haughtiest⁸ mood, have meted⁹ out to her a fuller measure of scornful indifference¹⁰ than she accorded to it, when, in due time, it made up its mind to hold out a condescending¹¹ hand to her. She declined its invitations, she took no notice of its calls, she would none of its patronage¹². Just in proportion as it grew more eager, piqued¹³ by her indifference, and curious to

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