There were lilies of the valley in the bosom of Mary's art-gown, and when she arrived she unfolded the brown paper parcel she carried and took therefrom a cardboard box containing a snow-white collar and spotless cuffs, which she proceeded to adjust upon her person. She then went to the drawing-board rack and stood helpless, unable to reach down her board, which was quite two inches above her head. There was a rush of embryo R.A.'S. Those who failed to hand her the board got down the cast and dusted it for her and fixed it up according to her minute and detailed directions, and adjusted her easel, and brought her a trestle, and lent her lead-pencils, and cut them for her, and gave her chunks of stale bread, for all which services she rewarded them with bewitching smiles and profuse thanks and a thousand apologies. It took her a long time getting to work on the charcoal cluster of plums which had occupied her ever since the commencement of the term, because she never ventured to commence without holding long confabulations with her fellow-students as to whether the light was falling in exactly the same way as last time. She got them to cock their heads on one side and survey the sketch, to retreat and look at it knowingly, to measure the visual angle with a stick of charcoal, or even to manipulate delicately the great work itself. Meantime she fluttered about it, chattering, alternately enraptured and dissatisfied, and when at last she started, it was by rubbing everything out. The best position for drawing happened to be next to Bertie Smythe. That artist was now engaged in copying the portrait of an actress. "Oh, Mr. Smythe," said Mary suddenly, in a confidential whisper. "I've got such a beautiful face for you to paint." "I know you have!" flashed Bertie, in the same intimate tone. "What a tease you are, twisting my words like that," said Mary, rapping him playfully on the knuckles with her mahl-stick. "You know what I mean quite well. It's a cousin of mine in the country." "I see--it runs in the family," said Bertie. "What runs in the family?" asked Mary. "Beautiful faces, of course." "Oh, that's too bad of you," said Mary pouting. "You know I don't like compliments." She rubbed a pellet of bread fretfully into her drawing. "I don't pay compliments. I tell the truth," said Bertie, meeting her gaze unflinchingly. "Oh, look at that funny little curl Miss Roberts is wearing to-night!" "Bother Miss Roberts. When are you going to let me have _your_ face to paint?" "My cousin's, you mean," said Mary, rubbing away harder than ever. "No, I don't. I mean yours." "I never give away photographs to gentlemen." "Well, sit to me then." "Sit to you! Where?" "In my studio." "Good gracious! What are you talking about?" "You."