transfiguring
the pallour exquisitely, enchantingly. And her small head drooped
forward, shadowed by her hair.

"You're what I want," he said. "You're about everything I require in
colour and form and texture."

She neither spoke nor moved as much as an eyelash.

"Look here, Miss West," he said in a slightly excited voice, "let's go
about this thing intelligently." He swung another easel on its rollers,
displaying a sketch in soft, brilliant colours--a multitude of figures
amid a swirl of sunset-tinted clouds and patches of azure sky.

"You're intelligent," he went on with animation,--"I saw that--somehow
or other--though you haven't said very much." He laughed, and laid his
hand on the painted canvas beside him:

"You're a model, and it's not necessary to inform you that this Is only
a preliminary sketch. Your experience tells you that. But it is
necessary to tell you that it's the final composition. I've decided on
this arrangement for the ceiling: You see for yourself that you're
perfectly fitted to stand or sit for all these floating, drifting,
cloud-cradled goddesses. You're an inspiration in yourself--for the
perfections of Olympus!" he added, laughing, "and that's no idle
compliment. But of course other artists have often told you this
before--as though you didn't have eyes of your own I And beautiful ones
at that!" He laughed again, turned and dragged a two-storied model-stand
across the floor, tossed up one or two silk cushions, and nodded to her.

"Don't be afraid; it's rickety but safe. It will hold us both. Are you
ready?"

As in a dream she set one little bare foot on the steps, mounted,
balancing with arms extended and the tips of her fingers resting on his
outstretched hand.

Standing on the steps he arranged the cushions, told her where to be
seated, how to recline, placed the wedges and blocks to support her
feet, chalked the bases, marked positions with arrows, and wedged and
blocked up her elbow. Then he threw over her a soft, white, wool robe,
swathing her from throat to feet, descended the steps, touched an
electric bell, and picking up a huge clean palette began to squeeze out
coils of colour from a dozen plump tubes.

Presently a short, squarely built man entered. He wore a blue jumper;
there were traces of paint on it, on his large square hands, on his
square, serious face.

"O'Hara?"

"Sorr?"

"We're going to begin _now_!--thank Heaven. So if you'll be kind enough
to help move