irlwinds unfurled, the stars that reel and
swim," and

"That orbed maiden with white fire laden
Whom mortals call the moon."

I went on painting--and listened. Laura kept on flying--and listened.
She was an educated girl, and knew as well as I did that we might
consider ourselves privileged listeners.

Laura had had quite a long spell of work, considering that the office of
a cloud-compeller is not a sinecure, and she was well entitled to a
rest. Browning said something to that effect as he rose to go, and,
adding that she was a brave and conscientious model, he slipped
half-a-crown into her hand. When I laid down my palette to go to the
door with him, the usual little word-squabble had to be gone through. No
argument of mine would ever persuade him that I had a right to see him
to the door, but I often did so, heedless of his protest. On the other
hand, no argument of his could ever persuade me that _he_ was justified
in seeing me to _his_ door, but he always managed to do so, whether I
was persuaded or not. He had stairs to go down and up again; I had not,
so it was most unfair, but that was Browning all over--always afraid to
give trouble, ever ready to take it.

When I got back to the studio, a new picture met my eye. I found Laura
giving vent to her feelings in a wild dance of jubilation, the
half-crown sparkling above her head as she held it up triumphantly with
both hands, whilst clusters of brown hair which had been carefully
pinned up out of the way, for I was painting her back, now cascaded over
her shoulders and down to her waist, suggesting new and original shapes
for fashionable capes or opera-cloaks. When Nature's mantle had once
more been pinned up and a drapery substituted for it, she settled down
in the chair the master had just vacated, and proceeded to discuss the
grave question as to what should be done with the half-crown. She
scorned my suggestion that she should spend it on a pair of gloves, and
then and there decided to have it made into a brooch as a memento of the
memorable afternoon.

The next day I received a letter from Browning indicating the particular
passages from Shelley's poem which he thought would be suitable to my
pictures.

That Laura was a queer girl; it was not till months after her first
visit to me that I chanced to find out she was a good pianist and had a
pretty voice, and only when she had got quite acclimatised in the studio
did I elicit the truth about t