"I? No, never. Father has been trying to get me painted this winter.

But I've been so busy--and then we're going South in two weeks--so we haven't been able to manage it."

"What a pity!" The subtle sparkle had died in his eyes, which from the shadow of their heavy lashes were regarding hers intently.

"You're very kind. Would you really like to paint me?" said Miss Darrow.

"Suppose I said you should. I want my portrait done. If you make me half as wonderful as Agatha, I shall die happy. Won't you come in to-morrow at five? We can talk it over. I must be going now. No, not now, to-morrow. Au revoir." She gave him her hand with a friendly nod, and threaded her way through the crowd, leaving Burnett staring at the card she had left in his hand.

On the way up-town in the machine Patricia examined him, smiling curiously.

"What a delusion you are, Ross Burnett! Railing in one moment at matrimony and in the next, tagging around like a tame bear at the heels of the first pretty girl that crosses your path."

"She _is_ pretty, isn't she?" he admitted, promptly.

"And quite the rage--this is her third season you know. You seemed to be getting on very rapidly----"

"Oh, it was all a mistake," Burnett laughed. "She thought I was an artist."

"An artist? What in the world----"

"I'm going to do her portrait----"

"You!" Patricia leaned forward eagerly. "What do you mean?"

"That I'm brother Philip--the chap that did the Agatha. She mistook me for him, and she was so nice about it that I didn't like to interfere."

Crabb was lighting a cigarette.

"I'm afraid, my dear Ross, that the East has sapped some of your moral fiber," he said.

"It's perfectly delightful," laughed Patricia.

"But Ross can't paint----"

"I'd like to try," said Burnett.

"Fiddlesticks!"

Patricia said no more, but all the way home her face wore a smile which would not come off. The miracle had happened. Had she searched New York she could not have found a girl more eminently suited to Ross Burnett.

That night Mortimer had some writing to do, but Patricia and her guest sat for a long while talking earnestly in the library. They didn't take Mortimer into their confidence, for Patricia had now gleefully donned the mantle her husband had so carelessly thrown aside. Here was an opportunity to make, and Patricia became the G.o.ddess in the machine.

CHAPTER XIII

Several days pa.s.sed. Ross Burnett moved about the studio adjusting a canvas upon an easel, bringing out draperies, raising and lowering curtains, and peering into drawers and chests in a manner which betrayed an uncertain state of mind. At last he seemed to find what he was looking for--a drapery of soft gray material. This he cast over the back of the easel, walked back from it to the far side of the room where he put his head on one side and looked with half-closed eyes.

There was a clatter of the old French knocker. Burnett dropped his paint tubes and cigarette and opened the door.

"Am I late?" laughed Miss Darrow.

"You couldn't come too early," said Burnett. But he dubiously eyed the French maid who had entered bearing a huge portmanteau.

"I was so afraid to keep you waiting. You're not very angry?"

"I'm sure I've been here since dawn," he replied.

"Then let's not waste any time. Oh, isn't it charming! Where shall I go?"

He pushed open the door of the dressing room.

"I think you'll find the mirror fair," he said. "If there's anything----"

"How exciting! No. And I'll be out in a jiffy."

When the door was closed Burnett eyed the model-throne, the draperies, the chair, and the canvas, seeking a last inspiration before the imminent moment. He put a j.a.panese screen behind the chair and threw a scarlet drapery over one end of it, knocking at the rebellious folds to make them fall as he wished.

"Will I do?" asked the girl, radiantly emerging. She wore a black evening dress. The maid had thrown a filmy drapery over her which brought out the dull whiteness of the shoulders. "It is so different in the daytime," she said, coloring; "but father has always wanted it so.

You know I haven't told him. It's to be a surprise."

Burnett's color responded to hers. He bowed his head. "You are charming,"

he murmured gallantly with a seriousness she could not fail to notice.

When Julie was dismissed to return at luncheon-time, Mr. Burnett conducted Miss Darrow to her throne and took his place before the canvas. She stood leaning easily upon the back of the chair, the lines of her slender figure sweeping down from the radiant head and shoulders into the dusky shadows behind her. She watched him curiously as he stood away from the easel to study the pose.

"If I only could--it's splendid so," he was murmuring, "but I wish you to sit."

She acquiesced without question. "I feel like a specimen," she sighed.

"It's a terrible ordeal. I'm all arms and hands. _Must_ you squint?"

In Burnett's laugh all restraint was liberated to the winds.

"Of course. All artists squint. It's like the circular sweep of the thumb--a symbol of the craft."

He walked behind her and adjusted the screen, taking away the crimson drapery and putting a greyish-green one in its place.

"There," he cried, "just as you are. It's stunning."

She was leaning forward with an elbow on the chair arm, her hands clasped, one slender wrist at her chin.

"Really! You're awfully easy to please--I wonder if I shall do as well as Agatha."

He took up a charcoal--looked at its end, and made a slight adjustment of the easel. "Before we begin--there's one thing I forgot." He paused.

"All painters are sensitive, you know. I'm rather queerer than most. I hope you won't care." The charcoal was now making rapid gyrations upon the surface of the canvas. "I'm awfully sensitive to criticism--in the early stages. I usually manage to pull out somehow--but in the beginning--when I'm drawing, laying in the figure--I don't like my canvas seen. Sometimes it lasts even longer. You won't mind not looking, will you?"

"I see. That's what the grey thing is for. I don't mind in the least; only I hope it will come soon. I'm wild to see. And please smoke. I know you want to."