tists are going to flit," remarked Jennie, one evening, as they
were taking seats at luncheon.

He looked up quickly. "Are they?"

"Yes, Miss Brisbane is going back to Washington, and Mr. Lawson will
follow, no doubt."

He unfolded his napkin with unmoved countenance. "Well, they are wise;
we are likely to have a norther any day now."

The soldier had all the responsibilities and perplexities he could
master without the addition of Elsie Brisbane's disturbing lure. The
value of her good opinion was enormously enhanced by the news of her
intended departure, and for a day or two Curtis went about his duties
with absent-minded ineffectiveness; he even detected himself once or
twice sitting with his pen in his hand creating aimless markings on his
blotting-pad. Wilson, the clerk, on one occasion waited full five
minutes for an answer while his chief debated with himself whether to
call upon Miss Brisbane at the studio or at the house. He began to find
excuses for her--"A man who is a villain in business may be a very
attractive citizen in private life--and she may have been very fond of
Sennett. From her point of view--anyhow, she is a lovely young girl,
and it is absurd to place her among my enemies." The thought of her face
set in bitter scorn against him caused his heart to contract painfully.
"I've been too harsh. These people are repugnant to one so dainty and
superrefined. There are excuses for her prejudice. I can't let her go
away in anger." And in this humble mood he stopped at the door of her
studio one morning, prepared to be very patient and very persuasive.

"Good-morning, Miss Brisbane. May I come in?"

"Certainly, if my work will interest you," she replied; "you'll excuse
my going on. I want to finish this portrait of Little Peta to-day."

"By all means--I do not intend to interrupt." He took a seat to the
front and a little to the left of her, and sat in silence for a few
moments. Her brown hair, piled loosely on her head, brought out the
exquisite fairness of her complexion, and the big, loose sleeve of her
blouse made her hand seem like a child's, but it was strong and steady.
She was working with her whole mind, breathing quickly as she mixed her
colors, holding her breath as she put her brush against the canvas. She
used the apparently aimless yet secure movement of the born painter.
With half-closed eyes and head a little to one side, with small hand
lifted to measure and compare, she took on a n