bout, began to untie her patent-leather shoes.

He remained standing at his easel, very busy with his string and lump of
charcoal; but after a while it occurred to him that she was taking an
annoyingly long time about a simple matter.

"What on earth is the trouble?" he called. "Do you realise you've been
in there a quarter of an hour?"

She made no answer. A second later he thought he heard an indistinct
sound--and it disquieted him.

"Miss West?"

There was no reply.

Impatient, a little disturbed, he walked across to the folding doors;
and the same low, suppressed sound caught his ear.

"What in the name of--" he began, walking into the room; and halted,
amazed.

She sat all huddled together behind the screen, partly undressed, her
face hidden in her hands; and between the slender fingers tears ran down
brightly.

"Are you ill?" he asked, anxiously.

After a moment she slowly shook her head.

"Then--what in the name of Mike--"

"P-please forgive me. I--I will be ready in a in-moment--if you wouldn't
mind going out--"

"_Are_ you ill? Answer me?"

"N-no."

"Has anything disturbed you so that you don't feel up to posing to-day?"

"No.... I--am--almost ready--if you will go out--"

He considered her, uneasy and perplexed. Then:

"All right," he said, briefly. "Take your own time, Miss West."

At his easel, fussing with yard-stick and crayon, he began to square off
his canvas, muttering to himself:

"What the deuce is the matter with that girl? Nice moment to nurse
secret sorrows or blighted affections. There's always something wrong
with the best lookers.... And she is a real beauty--or I miss my guess."
He went on ruling off, measuring, grumbling, until slowly there came
over him the sense of the nearness of another person. He had not heard
her enter, but he turned around, knowing she was there.

She stood silent, motionless, as though motion terrified her and inertia
were salvation. Her dark hair rippled to her waist; her white arms hung
limp, yet the fingers had curled till every delicate nail was pressed
deep into the pink palm. She was trying to look at him. Her face was as
white as a flower.

"All right," he said under his breath, "you're practically faultless. I
suppose you realise it!"

A scarcely perceptible shiver passed over her entire body, then, as he
stepped back, his keen artist's gaze narrowing, there stole over her a
delicate flush, faintly staining her from brow to ankle,