She surveyed him with growing confidence. How concerned and gentle he was for so large a creature! She scrambled to her feet. He was quick to take her hand, but she withdrew it from him. “I'm really all right. It was only dizziness. Good-by, Mr.--Mr. Neptune.” “Mr. Neptune!” He plucked at his red beard and planted himself in front of her. His eyes twinkled. “Strange little English girl, why do you call me that?” “Because you came out of the sea. And d'you know, before I go I want to tell you--I was awfully afraid you'd get drowned. Do you always swim when you come to the castle?” Mr. Neptune placed his hands on her slight shoulders. They were large and masterful hands, barbaric with vivid smudges of the colors he had been using. She was conscious that, in his artist's way, he was looking not so much at her as at her body. “Always swim to the castle! No. It was the first time. Your poet, Byron, was the last to do it. Thought I'd try just for sport, as you English call it.” “I wouldn't do it again,” she said wisely; “and now I must really go.” He didn't budge from her path. She waited. He regarded her with amusement. “Going! Not till you've promised to let me paint your portrait.” Kay was astounded and--yes, and flattered. He might be a great artist; he had the air of a man who was important. But she was more frightened than flattered: he looked so huge standing there in the yellow twilight. “Please, please,” she said, “you must let me go. My brother's waiting for me and he'll be nervous.” He made no sign that he had heard, but gazed down at her intently with his bare arms folded. She hesitated. A sob rose in her throat. “Why--why should you want to paint me?” “Because,” he said, “you are beautiful. What is beautiful dies, but I--I make it last for always.” Then, in a gentler voice, “Because, little English girl, if I don't paint you, we may never meet again.” It was the way in which he said it--the thrilling sadness of his tone. She felt that she was flushing, and laughed to disguise her embarrassment. “But, Mr. Neptune, I've thanked you and--and it was your fault that we met--and isn't it rather rude of you to prevent me from----?” “No,” he spoke deliberately, “not rude. You're adorable--too good to die. I want to make you live forever. If I were Mr. Neptune, d'you know what I'd do? I'd swim off with you, earth-maiden.” Her words came quickly; she was afraid of what he might say or do. “I promise. You shall paint me.” She tried to pass him. He put his arm before her as a barrier. His eyes flashed down on her, gladly and gravely. “When the English promise anything, they shake hands on it. Is that not so?” She slipped her small hand into his great one. She heard a footstep behind; it was her fisherman who had at last come in search of her. She nodded to let him know that she was coming. Now that she was not alone, she lost her fear of the giant. She became interested in him. She almost liked him.