‘Don’t you see?’ he returned. ‘I am making a picture of you.’ A warm tide of colour spread over the upturned face. ‘You should n’t do that without asking my leave.’ ‘A man must take his chances where he finds them,’ said the artist. ‘I don’t often get such a chance as this. I am a poor man, and can’t afford to let an opportunity slip.’ He had a shrewd sallow face and kind merry eyes, and as he spoke he paused in his work and smiled down at her. ‘I don’t want to be disobliging,’ said Rosalie, ‘but I—I don’t like it. I fell asleep by accident—I should n’t have thrown myself down like this if I had thought anyone was likely to see me.’ ‘All the better,’ commented he. ‘You could n’t have put yourself into such a position if you had tried to. It has evidently come naturally, and it is simply perfect.’ He paused to squeeze out a little colour from one of the tiny tubes in his open box, and again smiled encouragingly down at his model. ‘Now will you oblige me by closing your eyes again? No, don’t screw them up like that; let the lids drop gently—so, very good. ’T is a pity to hide the eyes—one does not often see blue eyes with such Murillo colouring; but the length of the lashes makes amends, and I want you asleep.’ Again a wave of colour swept over Rosalie’s face: the stranger marked it approvingly, and worked on. ‘Is it nearly done?’ she inquired presently. ‘You said you would only be a moment.’ ‘I find it will take several moments, but I am sure you would not grudge me the time if you knew what a wonderful piece of good fortune this is for me.’ ‘How can it be good fortune for you?’ ‘Don’t frown, please; let the lids lie loosely. I will tell you why I consider this meeting a piece of good fortune. Do you know what it is to make bread-and-butter?’ ‘I make butter three times a week,’ returned Rosalie, somewhat amused; ‘and I make bread too, sometimes.’ ‘Well, I have got to make bread-and-butter every day of my life, not only for myself, but for my wife and six small children, and I have nothing to make it with but this. You may open your eyes for a moment if you don’t move otherwise.’ Rosalie opened her eyes, and saw that he was bending towards her, and holding out a paint-brush. ‘Now, go to sleep again,’ he went on. ‘Yes, that’s what I make my bread-and-butter with; and it is n’t always an easy task, because there are a great many other chaps who want to make bread-and-butter in the same kind of way, and we can never be quite sure which among the lot of us will find the best market for his wares. But I shall have no difficulty in disposing of you, I am certain—therefore, I consider myself in luck.’ ‘Do you mean that you will sell that little picture of me?’