while
the other hand, holding her folded parasol, hung down at her side. She
was motionless; it was almost as if she were standing there on purpose
to be drawn. Yes, certainly she improved the picture. Her profile,
delicate and thin, defined itself against the sky, in the clear shadow
of a coquettish hat; her figure was light; she bent and leaned easily;
she wore a gray dress, fastened up as was then the fashion, and
displaying the broad edge of a crimson petticoat. She kept her position;
she seemed absorbed in the view. "Is she posing--is she attitudinizing
for my benefit?" Longueville asked of himself. And then it seemed to
him that this was a needless assumption, for the prospect was quite
beautiful enough to be looked at for itself, and there was nothing
impossible in a pretty girl having a love of fine landscape. "But posing
or not," he went on, "I will put her into my sketch. She has simply
put herself in. It will give it a human interest. There is nothing like
having a human interest." So, with the ready skill that he possessed, he
introduced the young girl's figure into his foreground, and at the
end of ten minutes he had almost made something that had the form of a
likeness. "If she will only be quiet for another ten minutes," he said,
"the thing will really be a picture." Unfortunately, the young lady was
not quiet; she had apparently had enough of her attitude and her view.
She turned away, facing Longueville again, and slowly came back, as if
to re-enter the church. To do so she had to pass near him, and as she
approached he instinctively got up, holding his drawing in one hand.
She looked at him again, with that expression that he had mentally
characterized as "bold," a few minutes before--with dark, intelligent
eyes. Her hair was dark and dense; she was a strikingly handsome girl.

"I am so sorry you moved," he said, confidently, in English. "You were
so--so beautiful."

She stopped, looking at him more directly than ever; and she looked at
his sketch, which he held out toward her. At the sketch, however, she
only glanced, whereas there was observation in the eye that she bent
upon Longueville. He never knew whether she had blushed; he afterward
thought she might have been frightened. Nevertheless, it was not exactly
terror that appeared to dictate her answer to Longueville's speech.

"I am much obliged to you. Don't you think you have looked at me
enough?"

"By no means. I should like so much to fini