The agreeable lady had made of the portion of the galleries in the neighborhood of the Burnett portrait a semblance of her own busy drawing-room. Other acquaintances came up and Miss Darrow was soon lost in the maze of small talk. A broad pair of shoulders were thrust forward into her group, and Miss Darrow found herself looking into a pair of quizzical gray eyes which were beaming a rather frank admiration into hers. "Miss Darrow--Mr. Burnett," Patricia Crabb was saying; and Millicent Darrow was conscious that in a moment the new arrival had quietly and cleverly appropriated her and was taking her to the opposite side of the room where he found for her a Winslow Homer of rocks and stormy splendor. "Why is it," she asked, after her first enthusiasm, "that the work of the artist so seldom suggests its creator's personality?" "The perversity of the human animal," he laughed. "That's the system of justice of the great Republic of Art, Miss Darrow. If we lose a characteristic here, we gain it somewhere else. Rather a nice balance, don't you think?" "You hardly look the poet, Mr. Burnett--you don't mind my saying so?" she laughed. "And if you do dream, you do it with your eyes very wide open." Mr. Burnett's brows were tangled in bewilderment. "I'm really not much given to dreaming. I'm rather busy, you know." "It's splendid of you. You've worked long?" "Er--yes--since I left college," he said, the tangle in his brows suddenly unraveling. A smile now illuminated his rather whimsical eyes. Miss Darrow found herself laughing frankly into them. "Art is long--you must be at least--thirty." "Less," he corrected. "Youth is my compensation for not being a lawyer--or a broker." She was conscious of the personal note in their conversation, but she made no effort to avoid it. This genius of less than thirty gave every token of sanity and good fellowship. "Who is Agatha?" she asked suddenly. "A--er--a friend of mine in Paris." "Oh!" she said, in confusion. And then: "The face is of the East--the Slav--did you choose her for that character?" "Not at all. She was--er--just--just a sitter--a commission, you know." "How interesting!" They had made the rounds of the room and were now facing the portrait again. "It was lucky to have so good a model," he continued. "One doesn't always. Have you ever posed, Miss Darrow?" "I? No, never. Father has been trying to get me painted this winter. But I've been so busy--and then we're going South in two weeks--so we haven't been able to manage it." "What a pity!" The subtle sparkle had died in his eyes, which from the shadow of their heavy lashes were regarding hers intently.