"_Vous ferez mon portrait, n'est-ce-pas?_" begged a dark-eyed beauty of Bishop, in a smooth, pleasant voice. She had a striking appearance. A mass of rebellious black hair strove persistently to fall over her oval face, and when she would neglect to push it back her eyes, dark and melancholy, shone through its tangle with a singular wild lustre. Her skin was dark, almost swarthy, but it was touched with a fine rosy glow of health and youth. Her features were perfect; the nose was slightly romanesque, the chin firm, the lips red and sensuous. When she drew our attention with her request she was standing before us in a rigid, half- defiant, half-commanding posture; but when she quickly added, "I will pose for you,--see?" and sat down beside me, opposite Bishop, her striking native grace asserted itself, for from a statue of bronze she suddenly became all warmth and softness, every line in her perfect, lithe figure showing her eagerness, and eloquent with coaxing. It was clear that Bishop was deeply impressed by the striking picture that she made; it was her beautiful wild head that fascinated him most. "No, I am first," insisted a little vixen, hard-featured and determined. "_Jamais de la vie!" "C'est moi!_" protested others, with such fire that I feared there would be trouble. The turmoil had the effect of withdrawing Bishop's attention momentarily from the beautiful tigress beside me. He smiled in bewilderment. He would be happy to draw them all, but---- At last he pacified them by proposing to take them in turn, provided they would be patient and not bother him. To this they poutingly agreed; and Bishop, paying no more attention to the girl beside me, rapidly dashed off sketch after sketch of the other girls. Exclamations of surprise, delight, or indignation greeted each of the portraits as it was passed round. Bishop was seeking "character," and as he was to retain the portraits, he made no efforts at flattery. All this time the dark-eyed one had sat in perfect silence and stillness beside me, watching Bishop in wonder. She had forgotten her hair, and was gazing through it with more than her eyes as his pencil worked rapidly. I studied her as well as I could as she sat all heedless of my existence. Her lips slightly curved at the corners into a faint suggestion of a smile, but as Bishop's work kept on and the other girls monopolized him, the lips gradually hardened. The shadow of her chin fell upon her smooth throat, not darkening it too much for me to observe that significant movements within it indicated a struggle with her self- control. Bishop was now sketching a girl, the others having run off to dance; they would return in their order. The girl beside me said to me, in a low voice, without looking at me,--"_Monsieur est Anglais?_" "No," I answered. "Ah! Américain?" "Yes." "And your friend?" nodding toward Bishop. "American also."