Three whole days I have worked on that bust, with a concentration of effort that is exhausting. It is finished--I feel tonight the elation of a girl out of school. Moreover I can sleep without the anxiety due to an unfinished work. Charlie is pleased, and I--well I am never satisfied, but I am conscious of having accomplished my best. His friends who know his restless and capricious nature are surprised that he gave me those three whole days. I was fortunate of course in meeting him immediately in his return, before he was re-engulfed in work. Moreover, with some perception, I planted myself with my materials in his house, and as I wanted him bare throated I begged him not to dress. A man in pajamas and dressing-gown does not suddenly get a notion to order his motor and go off to some place. I had him fairly anchored. Nevertheless he has been difficult to do. There is so much subtlety in the face, and sensitiveness, and all his varying personalities arrayed themselves before me, and had to be embodied into one interpretation. [Illustration: “CHARLIE” IN HIS DRESSING-GOWN ON HIS MOORISH SUNBATHED VERANDA (Photograph by Clare Sheridan) ] Charlie would get down from the model stand and observe the progress through half closed eyes. Once he said: “I wish this was not me, so that I could admire it as I please. I find him very interesting, this fellow you have made!” and then, after a close examination from all angles he added: “It might be the head of a criminal, mightn’t it--?” and proceeded to elaborate a sudden born theory that criminals and artists were psychologically akin. On reflection we all have a flame. A burning flame of impulse, a vision, a side tracked mind, a deep sense of unlawfulness. Later, as I was finishing, the Comte de Limur arrived. He is a young Frenchman who is studying the moving picture work, for France. He looked at the bust, and then at Charlie, and then slyly at me: “I see, it is Pan ...” and added with a chuckle: “one can never deceive a woman!” As I needed to work until quite late, it was fortunate that Charlie had changed his mind about Catalina. He heard yesterday that the fishing season closed there on November 1st. On receipt of this news he flashed a new idea: summoning by shouts “To-om!” his secretary, he asked: “Can you get some tents? Can you get some tinned foods? Can you find a location suitable for camping--can we start on Sunday morning?” The reply was in the affirmative, unhesitatingly. “Shall we take a chef, or do our own cooking?” Charlie looked at me, I informed him that I couldn’t boil an egg. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself. We’ll take a chef--” he said. And so my return to New York planned for Wednesday is again delayed. SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 6, 1921.