“Yes, Connie,” that lady murmured, with the ghost of a smile, “I've met Mr. Byrd. He brought his wife to the Studio.” She extended a languid hand to Stefan, who bowed over it. “Ah! I might have known you had a hand in that effect,” Constance exclaimed, looking across the room toward Mary. “Of course you might,” the other sighed, following her friend's eyes. “It's perfect, I think; don't you agree, Mr. Byrd?” and she actually rose from the sofa to obtain a better view. “Absolutely,” answered Stefan, riveted in his turn upon her. Miss Berber was clad in black tulle, so transparent as barely to obscure her form. Sleeves she had none. A trifle of gauze traveled over one shoulder, leaving the other bare save for a supporting strap of tiny scarlet beads. Her triple skirt was serrated like the petals of a black carnation, and outlined with the same minute beads. Her bodice could scarcely be said to exist, so deep was its V. From her ears long ornaments of jet depended, and a comb in scarlet bead-work ran wholly across one side of her head. A flower of the same hue and workmanship trembled from the point of her corsage. She wore no rings, but her nails were reddened, and her sleek black hair and scarlet lips completed the chromatic harmony. The whole effect was seductive, but so crisp as to escape vulgarity. “I must paint you, Miss Berber,” was Stefan's comment. “All the artists say that.” She waved a faint expostulation. Her hands, he thought, had the whiteness and consistency of a camelia. “All the artists are not I, however,” he answered with a smiling shrug. “Greek meets Greek,” thought Constance, amused, turning away to other guests. “I admit that.” Miss Berber lit another cigarette. “I have seen your Danaë. The people who have painted me have been fools. Obvious--treating me like an advertisement for cold cream.” She breathed a sigh, and sank again to the sofa. Her lids drooped as if in weariness of such banalities. Stefan sat beside her, the manner of both eliminating the surrounding group. “One must have subtlety, must one not?” she murmured. How subtle she was, he thought; how mysterious, in spite of her obvious posing! He could not even tell whether she was interested in him. “I shall paint you, Miss Berber,” he said, watching her, “as a Nixie. Water creatures, you know, without souls.” “No soul?” she reflected, lingering on a puff of smoke. “How chic!” Stefan was delighted. Hopefully, he broke into French. She replied with fluent ease, but with a strange, though charming, accent. The exotic French fitted her whole personality, he felt, as English could not do. He was pricked by curiosity as to her origin, and did not hesitate to ask it, but she gave her shadow of a smile, and waved her cigarette vaguely. “Quién sabe?” she shrugged. “Do you know Spanish?” he asked in French, seeking a clue. “Only what one picks up in California.” He was no nearer a solution. “Were you out there long?”