"There is always something that lacks! With me it is the technique that is to seek; with you the ideas! Otherwise we should both be masters. For you have technique both hands full; I have ideas, me." "Tell me some of them," said Vernon, strolling along by her side. It was not his habit to stroll along beside models. But to-day he was fretted and chafed by long waiting for that answer to his letter. Anything seemed better than the empty studio where one waited. "Here is one! I have the idea that artists have no eyes. How they pose me ever as l'Été or La Source or Leda, or that clumsy Suzanne with her eternal old men. As if they knew better than I do how a woman holds herself up or sits herself down, or nurses a duck, or defends herself!" "Your idea is probably correct. I understand you to propose that I should paint a picture called The Blind Artist?" "Don't do the imbecile. I propose for subject Me--not posed; me as I am in the Rest. Is it not that it is then that I am the most pretty, the most chic?" "It certainly is," said he. "And you propose that I should paint you as you appear in the Rest?" "Perfectly," she interrupted. "Tender rose colour--it goes to a marvel with my Cléo de Mérode hair. And if you want a contrast--or one of those little tricks to make people say: 'What does it mean?'" "I don't, thank you," he laughed. "Paint that white drowned girl's face that hangs behind your stove. Paint her and me looking at each other. She has the air of felicitating herself that she is dead. Me, I will have the air of felicitating myself that I am alive. You will see, Monsieur. Essay but one sole little sketch, and you will think of nothing else. One might entitle it 'The Rivals.'" "Or 'The Rest,'" said Vernon, a little interested. "Oh, well, I'm not doing anything.--I'll make a sketch and give it you as a present. Come in an hour." * * * * * "Auntie, wake up, wake up!" Betty, white-faced and determined, was pulling back the curtain with fingers that rigidly would not tremble. "Shut the door and spare my blushes," said her aunt. "What's up now?" She looked at the watch on the bed-table. "Why its only just six." "I can't help it," said Betty; "you've had all the night to sleep in. I haven't. I want you to get up and dress and come to Paris with me by the early train." "Sit down," said the aunt. "No, not on the bed. I hate that. In this chair. Now remember that we all parted last night in the best of spirits, and that as far as I know nothing has happened since." "Oh, no--nothing of course!" said Betty. "Don't be ironical," said Miss Desmond; "at six in the morning it's positively immoral. Tell me all--let me hear the sad sweet story of your life." "Very well," said Betty, "if you're only going to gibe I'll go alone. Or I'll get Mr. Temple to take me." "To see the other man? That _will_ be nice." "Who said anything about--?"