“Except Mademoiselle Elise. There, now we begin!” The rest of the hour was disturbed only by the sharp rattle of brushes and the scraping of the palette knife. “Are you tired?” asked Gethryn, looking at the clock; “you have ten minutes more.” “No,” said the girl, “continue.” Finally Gethryn rose and stepped back. “Time,” he said, still regarding his work. “Come and give me a criticism, Elise.” The girl stretched her limbs, and then, stepping down, trotted over to Gethryn. “What do you say?” he demanded, anxiously. Artists often pay more serious attention to the criticisms of their models than to those of a brother artist. For, although models may be ignorant of method—which, however, is not always the case—from seeing so much good work they acquire a critical acumen which often goes straight to the mark. It was for one of these keen criticisms that the young man was listening now. “I like it very much—very much,” answered the girl, slowly; “but, you see—I am not so cold in the face—am I?” “Hit it, as usual,” muttered the artist, biting his lip; “I’ve got more greens and blues in there than there are in a peacock’s tail. You’re right,” he added, aloud, “I must warm that up a bit—there in the shadows, and keep the high lights pure and cold.” Elise nodded seriously. “Monsieur Chaplain and I have finished our picture,” she announced, after a pause. It is a naïve way models have of appropriating work in which, truly enough, they have no small share. They often speak of “our pictures” and “our success.” “How do you like it?” asked the artist, absently. “Good,”—she shrugged her shoulders—“but not truth.” “Right again,” murmured Gethryn. “I prefer Dagnan,” added the pretty critic. “So do I—rather!” laughed Gethryn. “Or you,” said the girl. “Come, come,” cried the young man, coloring with pleasure, “you don’t mean it, Elise!” “I say what I mean—always,” she replied, marching over to the pups and gathering them into her arms. “I’m going to take a cigarette,” she announced, presently. “All right,” said Gethryn, squeezing more paint on his palette, “you’ll find some mild ones on the bookcase.” Elise gave the pups a little hug and kiss, and stepped lightly over to the bookcase. Then she lighted a cigarette and turned and surveyed herself in the mirror. “I’m thinner than I was last year. What do you think?” she demanded, studying her pretty figure in the glass. “Perhaps a bit, but it’s all the better. Those corsets simply ruined you as a model last year.” Elise looked serious and shook her head. “I do feel so much better without them. I won’t wear them again.” “No, you have a pretty, slender figure, and you don’t want them. That’s why I always get you when I can. I hate to draw or paint from a girl whose hips are all discolored with ugly red creases from her confounded corset.” The girl glanced contentedly at her supple, clean-limbed figure, and then, with a laugh, jumped upon the model stand.