d a cigarette and looked on cynically as Ogilvy and Annan
joined Burleson on tiptoe, affecting exaggerated curiosity.

"I think it's rotten," said Annan, after a moment's scrutiny; "don't
you, Sam?"

Ogilvy, fists thrust deep into the pockets of his painting jacket, eyed
the canvas in silence.

"_Don't_ you?" repeated Annan. "Or is it a masterpiece beyond my vulgar
ken?"

"Well--no. Kelly was evidently trying to get at something new--work out
some serious idea. No, I don't think it's rotten at all. I rather like
it."

"It looks too much like her; that's why it's rotten," said Annan. "Thank
God I've a gift for making pretty women out of my feminine clients,
otherwise I'd starve. Kelly, you haven't made Valerie pretty enough.
That's the trouble. Besides, it's muddy in spots. Her gown needs
dry-cleaning. But my chief criticism is the terrible resemblance to the
original."

"Ah-h, what are you talking about!" growled Burleson; "did you ever see
a prettier girl than Valerie West?"

Ogilvy said slowly: "She's pretty--to look at in real life. But,
somehow, Kelly has managed here to paint her more exactly than we have
really ever noticed her. That's Valerie's face and figure all right; and
it's more--it reflects what is going on inside her head--all the
unbaked, unassimilated ideas of immaturity whirring in a sequence which
resembles logic to the young, but isn't."

"What do you mean by such bally stuff?" demanded Burleson, bluntly.

Annan laughed, but Ogilvy said seriously:

"I mean that Kelly has painted something interesting. It's a fascinating
head--all soft hair and delicious curves, and the charming indecision of
immature contours which ought some day to fall into a nobler
firmness.... It's as interesting as a satire, I tell you. Look at that
perfectly good mouth and its delicate sensitive decision with a hint of
puritanical primness in the upper lip--and the full, sensuous under lip
mocking the upper and giving the lie to the child's eyes which are still
wide with the wonder of men and things. And there's something of an
adolescent's mystery in the eyes, too--a hint of languor where the bloom
of the cheek touches the lower lid--and those smooth, cool, little
hands, scarcely seen in the shadow--did you ever see more purity and
innocence--more character and the lack of it--painted into a pair of
hands since Van Dyck and Whistler died?"

Neville, astonished, stood looking incredulously at the canvas around
wh