‘I couldn’t think of taking such a liberty with Miss Martha,’ returned the stranger; ‘the freemasonry of art puts me at my ease with you. Would you mind sitting quiet for half an hour or so? That semi-recumbent position will do beautifully.’ He sketched in rock and figure as he spoke, with a free facile touch that showed a practised hand. ‘I’m sure you can paint beautifully,’ said Daphne, watching his pencil as he sat a little way off, glancing up at her every now and then. ‘Wait till you see how I shall interpret your lilies and roses. I ought to be as good a colourist as Rubens or John Phillip to do you justice.’ She had fallen into a reposeful attitude after finishing her meal, her arms folded on the rock, her head resting on the folded arms, her eyes gazing sleepily at the sunlit valley in front of her, one little foot pendent from the edge of the greenish gray stone, the other tucked under her dark blue skirt, a mass of yellow tresses falling over one dark blue shoulder, and a scarlet ribbon fluttering on the other. Martha Dibb looked more and more horrified. Could there be a lower deep than this? To sit for one’s portrait to an unknown artist in a shabby coat. The man was unquestionably a vagabond, although he did not make havoc of his aspirates like poor dear papa; and Daphne was bringing disgrace on Madame Tolmache’s whole establishment. ‘Suppose I should meet him in Regent Street one day after I leave school, and he were to speak to me, what would mamma and Jane say?’ thought Miss Dibb. CHAPTER II. ‘AND THIS WAS GLADLY IN THE EVENTIDE.’ Daphne was as still as a statue, her vanity gratified by this homage to her charms. There had been nobody to admire her at Asnières but the old music-master, into whose hat she had sometimes put a little bouquet from the trim suburban garden, or a spray of acacia from the grove that screened the maiden meditations of Madame Tolmache’s pupils from the vulgar gaze of the outside world. She retained her recumbent attitude patiently for nearly an hour, half asleep in the balmy afternoon atmosphere, while the outraged Martha sat on her rock apart, digging her everlasting crochet-hook into the fluffy mass of wool, and saying never a word. The stranger was nearly as silent as Martha. He was working industriously at his sketch, and smoking his cigar as he worked, having first ascertained that the ladies were tolerant of the weed. He painted in a large dashing style that got over the ground very quickly, and made a good effect. He had nearly finished his sketch of the figure on the rock—the indigo gown, scarlet ribbon, bright hair, and dark luminous eyes, when Daphne jumped up suddenly, and vowed that her every limb was an agony to her. ‘I couldn’t endure it an instant longer!’ she exclaimed. ‘I hope you’ve finished.’ ‘Not quite; but you may change your attitude as much as you like if you’ll only keep your head the same way. I am working at the face now.’