It seemed to her sometimes as though she were looking at a total stranger. She had never thought of him as having any capacity for the ordinary and lesser ills, vanities, and vexations--the trivial worries that beset other artists. "Louis?" she said, full of curiosity. "What?" he demanded, ungraciously. "You are not one bit like yourself to-day." He made no comment. She ventured again: "Do I hold the pose properly?" "Yes, thanks," he said, absently. "May I talk?" "I'd rather you didn't, Valerie, just at present." "All right," she rejoined, cheerfully; but her pretty eyes watched him very earnestly, a little troubled. When she was tired the pose ended; that had been their rule; but long after her neck and back and thighs and limbs begged for relief, she held the pose, reluctant to interrupt him. When at last she could endure it no longer she moved; but her right leg had lost not only all sense of feeling but all power to support her; and down she came with a surprised and frightened little exclamation--and he sprang to her and swung her to her feet again. "Valerie! You bad little thing! Don't you know enough to stop when you're tired?" [Illustration: "He picked up a bit of white chalk ... and traced on the floor the outline of her shoes."] "I--didn't know I was so utterly gone," she said, bewildered. He passed his arm around her and supported her to the sofa where she sat, demure, a little surprised at her collapse, yet shyly enjoying his disconcerted attentions to her. "It's your fault, Kelly. You had such a queer expression--not at all like you--that I tried harder than ever to help you--and fell down for my pains." "You're an angel," he said, contritely, "but a silly one." "A scared one, Kelly--and a fallen one." She laughed, flexing the muscles of her benumbed leg: "Your expression intimidated me. I didn't recognise you; I could not form any opinion of what was going on inside that very stern and frowning head of yours. If you look like that I'll never dare call you Kelly." "Did I seem inhuman?" "N-no. On the contrary--very human--ordinary--like the usual ill-tempered artist man, with whom I have learned how to deal. You know," she added, teasingly, "that you are calm and god-like, usually--and when you suddenly became a mere mortal--" "I'll tell you what I'll do with you," he said; "I'll pick you up and put you to bed." "I wish you would, Kelly. I haven't had half enough sleep." He sat down beside her on the sofa: "Don't talk any more of that god-like business," he growled, "or I'll find the proper punishment." "Would _you_ punish _me_, Kelly?" "I sure would." "If I displeased you?" "You bet." "Really?" She turned partly toward him, half in earnest. "Suppose--suppose--" but she stopped suddenly, with a light little laugh that lingered pleasantly in the vast, still room.