She clung to his lips. Until he had completely vanished her eyes followed. “Teddy, is she beautiful?” Her whisper came sharply. “The most beautiful--after you, mother, she’s the most beautiful person in the world.” She closed her eyes and smiled. “After me! I’m glad you put me first.” She stretched out her hand and drew him to her. “Now I’m ill, he’s lonely. He’s got no one to care for him. Don’t let him be by himself.” “Not at all, Mummie?” “Not for a moment. You’d better go to him now.” He was on his way to the door when she beckoned him back. “What’s she called, Teddy?” “Vashti.” “Vashti.” She repeated the word. “Don’t let him be lonely, Teddy--not for a moment alone with her. Good-by, darling. Go to him now.” CHAPTER XI--THE LITTLE GOD LOVE On the wall a clock was ticking; that and the rustling of the fire as the coals sank lower were the only sounds. Like a white satin mantle that had drifted from God’s shoulders, the snow lay across the world. The sun flashed down; the studio was flooded with glory. About the snow and how it came Jimmie Boy had been inventing stories. It was the angels’ washing day up there and some of their wings had blown off the clothes line. No, wa it wasn’t. This was how the snow really happened. The impatient little children who were waiting to be born had had a pillow-fight, and had burst their pillows. But his father hadn’t spoken for a long time. The fire was going out. Vashti might arrive at almost any moment And, alas, Teddy was naked. He was posing for the figure of Love, peering in forlornly through the fast-locked gate. He hadn’t wanted to do it; even now he was filled with shame. But Jimmie Boy had offered him money--and he needed money; and Dearie had begged him not to leave Jimmie Boy for a single second. When he had crept up to her room to visit her, she had seized his hands and whispered reproachfully, “Go back to him. Go back.” The best way to be always with his father had been to pose for him. And there was another reason: by making himself necessary to the picture he had been able to see Vashti. Day after day he had sat in the studio, mouse-quiet, watching her. At night he had made haste to go to sleep that the next day might come more quickly. In the morning, when he had wakened, his first thoughts had been of her; as he dressed, he had told himself, “I shall see her in three hours.” Vashti hadn’t seen her portrait yet; she had been promised that this time she should see it--that this time it should be done. The promise had been made before, but now it was to be kept. So to-day was the last day. “Please, mayn’t I move?” “Not yet That’s the sixth time you’ve asked me. I’d have finished if you’d kept quiet.” “But--but I’m all aches and shivers.”