The grateful Burnett drew forth his cigarette-case and while his model rested busied himself among his tubes of paint, squeezing the colors out upon the palette.

"If you only knew," he sighed, "how very difficult it seems." But the large brush dipped into the paint and Burnett worked vigorously, a fine light glowing in his eyes. Miss Darrow watched the generous flow from the oil cup mingling with the colors.

"What a lot of vermilion you use!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "'What a lot of vermilion you use.'"]

"Hair," he replied. He seemed so absorbed that she said no more, and she didn't know whether to laugh or frown. Later she ventured:

"If it's carroty I'll never speak to you again. Please make it auburn, Mr. Burnett."

He only worked the more rapidly. He seemed to be dipping into every color upon the palette, in the center of which had grown a brown of the color of walnut-juice. This he was applying vigorously to the lower part of the canvas. When the palette was cleared he put it aside and sank back in a chair with a sigh.

"Rest," said the artist.

"I'm not in the least tired," she replied.

"But _I_ am. It takes it out of me to be so interested."

"Does it?" She leaned back in her chair, regarding him with a new curiosity. "Do you know," she added, "you are full of surprises----"

She ignored the inquiry of his upraised brows.

"----and paint," she finished with a laugh.

He ruefully eyed a discolored thumb. "I'm awfully untidy, I know. I've always been. In Paris they called me Slovenly Peter."

"I shouldn't say that--only----"

"What?"

"Only----" she indicated several streaks of black on his grey walking-suit. "Must one always pay such a price to inspiration?"

"Jove! That _was_ stupid. I always do, though, Miss Darrow." He examined the spots and touched them with the tips of his fingers. "It's paint,"

he finished, examining it with a placidity almost impersonal. "It doesn't matter in the least."

"And do you always smudge your face?" she asked sweetly. He looked at himself in the mirror. There was a broad streak of red across his forehead. He wiped it off with a handkerchief.

"Oh, please don't laugh."

He sank upon the edge of the throne, and then they both laughed joyously, naturally, like two children.

"I'm an awfully lucky fellow," he said, at last. "I feel like a feudal baron with a captured princess. Here are you, that most inaccessible of persons, the Woman of Society, doomed every morning for two weeks to play Darby and Joan with a man you've known only three days. How on earth can a fellow survive seeing a girl he likes behind cups of tea!

It's rough, I think. Society seems to accomplish every purpose but its avowed one. Instead of which everybody plays puss-in-the-corner. A fellow might have a chance if the corners weren't so far apart. And I, just back from abroad with all the skeins of old friendship at a loose end, walk into your circle and quietly appropriate you for a fortnight--while your other friends go a-begging."

"They haven't begged very hard," she laughed. "If they had, perhaps they might be playing Darby and Joan, too. I've never tried it before. But I think it's rather nice----" She broke off suddenly.

"Do you know, I've rested _quite_ twenty minutes," she said after a moment. "Come, time is precious."

"That depends----"

She waited a moment for him to finish, but he said no more.

"How extraordinary!" she said with a pretty _moue_. "I don't know whether I should be pleased or not."

"Can you blame me? The Forelock of Time hangs too temptingly," he laughed. "Of course, if you'd rather pose----" He took up his dripping brushes with a sigh.

"Oh, indeed, I don't care," she sank back in the chair. "Only don't you think--isn't that really what I'm here for?"

"It is time to pose, Miss Darrow," he said determinately.

But she made no move to get into the position.

"I haven't complained," and she smiled at him. "Your muse is difficult, and I'm the gainer. Really, I think I'd rather talk."

"And I'm waiting to go on with the portrait."

"I'll pose again on one condition----"

"Yes."

"That you put on overalls."

The brushes and palette dropped to his side. "That's rough on Slovenly Peter," he laughed. He set about squeezing the paint tubes, wiping the brush handles and edge of the palette. When the pose was over Julie appeared. The artist drew the grey drapery over the easel and helped Miss Darrow to descend.

CHAPTER XIV

These mornings in the studio were full of subtleties. Miss Darrow discovered that Burnett could talk upon many subjects. He had traveled much in Europe, and could even draw a bold outline for her of the East, which she had never seen. He talked little of art, and then only when the subject was introduced by his model. In the rests, which were long, he led Miss Darrow, often without her being aware of it, down pleasant lanes of thought, all of which seemed to end abruptly in the garish sunshine of personality. She did not find it unpleasant; only it seemed rather surprising the way all formality between them had been banished.

One morning there was a diversion. A clatter on the knocker and Burnett, frowning, went to the door. Miss Darrow heard a feminine voice and an exclamation. Burnett went rather hurriedly and stood outside, his hand upon the door k.n.o.b. There was a murmur of conversation and a feminine laugh. She tried not to hear what was said. The hand fidgeted on the k.n.o.b, but the murmur of voices continued. Miss Darrow got down from the throne and moved to the window, adjusting a stray curl as she pa.s.sed.

She looked away from the mirror, then stopped suddenly and looked again.

When Burnett entered she was sitting in the window-seat, looking out over the roof-tops. He was profuse in apology. She resumed the pose and the artist painted silently. "They say there's a pleasure in painting that only a painter knows," she began.

"Of course."

"Then why do we rest so often? I'm not easily deceived. The fine frenzy is lacking, Mr. Burnett--isn't it so?"

For reply he held out his paint-smudged hands.

"No--no," she went on. "You're painting timidly with the tips of your fingers--not in the least like the 'Agatha.' I'm sure you're doing me early-Victorian."

Burnett stopped painting, looked at his canvas and laughed. "Oh, it's hardly that," he said.

"Won't you prove it?"