"You're very kind. Would you really like to paint me?" said Miss Darrow. "Suppose I said you should. I want my portrait done. If you make me half as wonderful as Agatha, I shall die happy. Won't you come in to-morrow at five? We can talk it over. I must be going now. No, not now, to-morrow. Au revoir." She gave him her hand with a friendly nod, and threaded her way through the crowd, leaving Burnett staring at the card she had left in his hand. On the way up-town in the machine Patricia examined him, smiling curiously. "What a delusion you are, Ross Burnett! Railing in one moment at matrimony and in the next, tagging around like a tame bear at the heels of the first pretty girl that crosses your path." "She _is_ pretty, isn't she?" he admitted, promptly. "And quite the rage--this is her third season you know. You seemed to be getting on very rapidly----" "Oh, it was all a mistake," Burnett laughed. "She thought I was an artist." "An artist? What in the world----" "I'm going to do her portrait----" "You!" Patricia leaned forward eagerly. "What do you mean?" "That I'm brother Philip--the chap that did the Agatha. She mistook me for him, and she was so nice about it that I didn't like to interfere." Crabb was lighting a cigarette. "I'm afraid, my dear Ross, that the East has sapped some of your moral fiber," he said. "It's perfectly delightful," laughed Patricia. "But Ross can't paint----" "I'd like to try," said Burnett. "Fiddlesticks!" Patricia said no more, but all the way home her face wore a smile which would not come off. The miracle had happened. Had she searched New York she could not have found a girl more eminently suited to Ross Burnett. That night Mortimer had some writing to do, but Patricia and her guest sat for a long while talking earnestly in the library. They didn't take Mortimer into their confidence, for Patricia had now gleefully donned the mantle her husband had so carelessly thrown aside. Here was an opportunity to make, and Patricia became the goddess in the machine. CHAPTER XIII Several days passed. Ross Burnett moved about the studio adjusting a canvas upon an easel, bringing out draperies, raising and lowering curtains, and peering into drawers and chests in a manner which betrayed an uncertain state of mind. At last he seemed to find what he was looking for--a drapery of soft gray material. This he cast over the back of the easel, walked back from it to the far side of the room where he put his head on one side and looked with half-closed eyes. There was a clatter of the old French knocker. Burnett dropped his paint tubes and cigarette and opened the door. "Am I late?" laughed Miss Darrow. "You couldn't come too early," said Burnett. But he dubiously eyed the French maid who had entered bearing a huge portmanteau. "I was so afraid to keep you waiting. You're not very angry?" "I'm sure I've been here since dawn," he replied.