ed bench that ran beneath the broad window facing the north
and stared at the canvas.

"Great Heavens, Gordon!" I exclaimed.

"It hits right out from the shoulder, doesn't it," he said. "Ever see
anything much more alive than this?"

"She's going to lift her eyes from the baby," I answered. "She's going
to indulge in that little half-timid and half-boastful look of the
young mother challenging the whole world to say that her infant isn't
perfection in flesh and blood!"

Gordon made no answer. He was standing before the canvas, his left arm
crossed over his breast with the right elbow resting upon it and the
square bluish chin in the grasp of long thin fingers.

"You've evidently stuck to the model a great deal," I commented further,
"but you've also idealized, made poetry of her."

"And you're talking like a donkey," my friend told me, rather
impatiently. "I simply have better eyes than you. Of course, I suppose
you've seen a lot of her, for she seems to think the sun rises and sets
on you, but you haven't studied every bit of her face as I've done. I've
idealized nothing at all, but my own appreciation of her, and perhaps a
trick or two, have caught you. The light came right through this open
window, naturally, and caused that glint of the fluffy ends of hair,
like powdered sunlight dusted over the dark chestnut. It also threw
those strong high lights over the edges of the features. Then, I stuck
those roses between her and the window and they gave the reflected
tints. It's just a portrait, you old idiot, and nothing else, except
perhaps for the fancy shawl. Of course, everything that wasn't directly
illumined was in subdued tones, which account for the softness. You may
think it's rather ideal, but that's only because I saw her right and got
an effective pose. Hang it all, man! If I gave you a pond and a bunch of
trees and blue hills back of them, you might describe them accurately,
and yet make the picture an interesting one, in one of those fool
stories of yours."

"She is very beautiful," I said, knowing that he expected no direct
answer to his tirade.

"If she hadn't been, I shouldn't have bothered with her," he replied, in
a tone that rather rasped on my feelings. "That's just what's the matter
with her; she's a good-looker and you daren't change anything. If I were
to use her again for anything important, fellows would ask if I intend
to stick to the same old model, all my life. If I get her to pose j