The portrait was on an easel in the middle of the dusty, littered floor. It was an oil sketch in full color and she could not repress an exclamation of delighted surprise when she saw it. There she was, in Grandmother Townsend’s gown, smiling from the canvas, and very, very good to look upon, a fact of which she was quite as conscious as the artist. “Oh!” she cried. And then again. “Oh!” He laughed, triumphantly. “Told you it wasn’t so bad, didn’t I?” he demanded. “It isn’t finished. There are some points about the face which don’t exactly suit me yet, but we can fix that in a hurry, now that you are here. Come now, what do you think of it?” She thought it marvelous and said so. “I don’t see how you ever remembered about the dress and the funny little bonnet,” she said. “Even the lace and the trimming are just right. How could you remember?” He laughed again. “It wasn’t memory altogether,” he told her. “I got a copy of the photograph of the crowd which was taken the afternoon of the dress rehearsal and I worked from that. Then, besides, I made no less than three quick sketches of you in that costume. Once when you put it on for the committee to see; once when you were singing at the dress rehearsal; and the last and best the night of the concert. I was behind the scenes, no one was watching me and I had a great chance.” The mention of the event reminded her. She turned to look at him. “You sent me those tea roses, didn’t you?” she asked. He nodded. “They should have been orchids,” he declared. “Would have been if I could have afforded the price. But you told me once that you liked those old-fashioned roses. Hope you _did_ like ’em.” “They were darlings. But you shouldn’t have given them to me.” “Why not? I didn’t put my name on them, but I hoped you would guess. Nobody else guessed, did they?” he added, a trifle anxiously. “No-o. No.... Well,” with a sudden turn of the subject. “I must go now. I think the portrait is splendid and I am glad I have seen it. Good afternoon.” His change of expression was funny. “Go!” he repeated, in alarm. “Of course you’re not going _yet_! Why, what I really wanted you to come here for was to pose for me just a little. The mouth--and the eyes--why, you can see for yourself they’re not right. Now, can’t you?” She hesitated. “Well,” she admitted, “of course they are not _just_ like mine, but--” He interrupted. “But we’ll make ’em like yours,” he vowed. “Now you sit down over there--on that chair, where I can get the light as it is in the photograph. The chair is a good deal of a wreck, like about everything else in this ruin, but I guess it will hold you. You see, I want to get--” And now she interrupted. “Oh, no, I mustn’t!” she protested, hurriedly. “I mustn’t stay, really. Please don’t ask me to.”