"Then let's not waste any time. Oh, isn't it charming! Where shall I go?" He pushed open the door of the dressing room. "I think you'll find the mirror fair," he said. "If there's anything----" "How exciting! No. And I'll be out in a jiffy." When the door was closed Burnett eyed the model-throne, the draperies, the chair, and the canvas, seeking a last inspiration before the imminent moment. He put a Japanese screen behind the chair and threw a scarlet drapery over one end of it, knocking at the rebellious folds to make them fall as he wished. "Will I do?" asked the girl, radiantly emerging. She wore a black evening dress. The maid had thrown a filmy drapery over her which brought out the dull whiteness of the shoulders. "It is so different in the daytime," she said, coloring; "but father has always wanted it so. You know I haven't told him. It's to be a surprise." Burnett's color responded to hers. He bowed his head. "You are charming," he murmured gallantly with a seriousness she could not fail to notice. When Julie was dismissed to return at luncheon-time, Mr. Burnett conducted Miss Darrow to her throne and took his place before the canvas. She stood leaning easily upon the back of the chair, the lines of her slender figure sweeping down from the radiant head and shoulders into the dusky shadows behind her. She watched him curiously as he stood away from the easel to study the pose. "If I only could--it's splendid so," he was murmuring, "but I wish you to sit." She acquiesced without question. "I feel like a specimen," she sighed. "It's a terrible ordeal. I'm all arms and hands. _Must_ you squint?" In Burnett's laugh all restraint was liberated to the winds. "Of course. All artists squint. It's like the circular sweep of the thumb--a symbol of the craft." He walked behind her and adjusted the screen, taking away the crimson drapery and putting a greyish-green one in its place. "There," he cried, "just as you are. It's stunning." She was leaning forward with an elbow on the chair arm, her hands clasped, one slender wrist at her chin. "Really! You're awfully easy to please--I wonder if I shall do as well as Agatha." He took up a charcoal--looked at its end, and made a slight adjustment of the easel. "Before we begin--there's one thing I forgot." He paused. "All painters are sensitive, you know. I'm rather queerer than most. I hope you won't care." The charcoal was now making rapid gyrations upon the surface of the canvas. "I'm awfully sensitive to criticism--in the early stages. I usually manage to pull out somehow--but in the beginning--when I'm drawing, laying in the figure--I don't like my canvas seen. Sometimes it lasts even longer. You won't mind not looking, will you?" "I see. That's what the grey thing is for. I don't mind in the least; only I hope it will come soon. I'm wild to see. And please smoke. I know you want to."