"No, there is no peacock here, but--can I do anything for you?" I swept around and there was that radiant figure in pink, melting into the green behind her, the soft roundness of her figure echoed in the larger circling outlines of the trees, her brown hair the delicate counterpart in color of the ground she stood on, and her eyes, deep ultramarine, the concentrated blue of all the pale sky--what a picture, what a picture! My imagination flew to grasp it, and I forgot everything but that I must have it, swept up clean from the pallet and made living on the canvas. "Yes," I said, "yes--there is something you can do for me. You can stay right there--or you can go over there and sit down, while I get you," and I dashed back to the gate after my paints. When I returned she was still standing and the corners of her lips were twitching. They were very red. I began unpacking my tubes and unfolding my easel. "Wouldn't you like to sit on the bench over there? You have no idea how much the tree trunk will help out the composition." And I begged her silently. But she stood there perfectly still and looked at me with eyes full of question; they had a moving highlight in them, like the sun on a wave--if I could only catch that! "You want to get me!" she finally stammered. "Oh, yes!" I said, "don't you see? I was walking by the gate and I saw you, and I want you to pose for me," and then as I saw her hesitate, "oh, surely you don't mind being gotten?" With what a terror the thought filled me--but I had to do it somehow. "Well--only--but why don't you paint the little boy?" "Oh, David! Oh, I paint him in everything--he comes in the sunshine and the blowing wind and all the feeling of movement I ever get in a picture--and then if people are happy when they look at the picture, that is because David was with me when I painted it. David is a little Love." Well, she never said a word, but I think she understood what I meant, because she went over and sat down and called David to her and began talking with him. I am sure I had no idea what she was saying to him, because I set to the work then with all my might. I sketched in the figure, and set up my pallet with plenty of color and then flew to the brushes; it seemed as if I could work with the culminative inspiration of all the painting I had ever done. While I was blocking in the hat with the roses, she looked up. "Won't you tell me what it is going to be?" she asked with the air of having thought of the question some time before. "Well," I replied, knowing I would have to make a step somehow, "Whistler painted a Lady in White, so I thought I would call this the Lady in Pink; and if it comes out and I really get you----" "If you really get me?" "Why, yes; if I can just catch you the way I want you; that is one of the troubles of the artist, you know--he never really is sure whether he is going to be able to get what he wants or----" "Not even when he is so eager about it?"