"And yet you deserve it, Joan, for I don't think God ever made anything prettier." She blushed and looked softly at him, but took no alarm; for though such a compliment had never before been paid her, yet, as Barron spoke the words, slowly, critically, without enthusiasm or any expression of pleasure on his face, they had little power to alarm. He merely stated what he seemed to regard as a fact. There was almost a suggestion of irritation in his utterance, as though his model's rare beauty only increased his own artistic difficulties; and, perhaps fearing from her smile that she found undue pleasure in his statement, he added to it: "I don't say that to natter you, Joan. I hate compliments and never pay them. I told you, remember, that your wrists were a thought too big." "You needn't be sayin' it over an' over, Mister Jan," she answered, her smile changing to a pout. "But you wouldn't like me any more if I stopped telling you the truth. We have agreed to love what is true and to worship Mother Nature because she always speaks the truth." The girl made no answer, and he went on working for a few moments, then spoke again. "I'm selfish, Joan, and think more of my picture than I do of my little model. Put down your arm and take a good rest. I tried holding my hand over my eyes yesterday to see how long I could do so without wearying myself. I found that three minutes was quite enough, but I have often kept you posed for five." "It hurted my arm 'tween the shoulder an' elbow a lil bit at first, but I've grawed used to it now." "How ever shall I repay you, kind Joan, for all your trouble and your long walks and pretty stories?" "I doan't need no pay. If 'twas a matter o' payin', 'twould be a wrong thing to do, I reckon. Theer's auld Bascombe up Paul--him wi' curls o' long hair an' gawld rings in's ears. Gents pays en to take his likeness; an' theer's gals make money so, more'n wan; but faither says 'tis a heathenish way of livin' an' not honest. An'--an' I'd never let nobody paint me else but you, Mister Jan, 'cause you'm different." "Well, you make me a proud man, Joan. I'm afraid I must be a poor substitute for Joe." He noticed she had never mentioned her sweetheart since their early interviews, and wanted to ascertain of what nature was Joan's affection for the sailor. He did not yet dream how faint a thing poor Joe had shrunk to be in Joan's mind, or how the present episode in her life was dwarfing and dominating all others, present and past. Nor did the girl's answer to his remark enlighten him. "In coorse you an' Joe's differ'nt as can be. You knaws everything seemin'ly an' be a gen'le-man; Joe's only a seafarin' man, an' 'e doan't knaw much 'cept what he's larned from faither. But Joe used to say a sight more'n what you do, for all that."