“Run along home, you foolish child,” he cried. “I’m busy and mustn’t be interrupted.” “I must see you--for just a minute,” she pleaded--the kind of pleading that is command. “Don’t be so vain. Don’t take yourself so seriously.” That voice of hers--it sounded sanely humorous. And he certainly was putting himself in the position of having egotistically believed to the uttermost her remarks of yesterday, which were probably nothing but a fantastic mood. But he simply could not open that door and face her plump off. He made three or four steps away from it on tiptoe, then walked heavily, calling out in a tone of gruff indifference: “Come on! But don’t forget I’m busy.” Luckily he happened to glance at the picture; he had just time hastily to fling a drape over it. He went to the fireplace and busied himself with the fire--for the day after the heavy rain was of an almost winter coolness. He heard the door open and close. “Your manners are simply shocking,” came in her voice. He turned round to face her. No, she was not in the least abashed, as one would have expected her to be on seeing him for the first time after her proposal. What did it mean? What was in that industrious, agile mind? She was much better dressed than she had been as his model. She was wearing a most becoming gray gown with a small, gray walking hat to match. Yes, she looked prettier, more ladylike, but-- “How do you like my new suit?” asked she. “Very good,” replied he. “But while you’ve gained something, you’ve lost more.” “I know it,” admitted she. “I saw it the instant I looked at myself in the glass, and I’ve felt it all the way here. I’ve lost what you like best in me. That is, I’ve not exactly lost it, but covered it up. But it’s still here.” This last in a tone gay with enjoyment in teasing him. He stood with his back to the fire, and waited. She came slowly toward him, halting at every second step. Her smile was mysterious--and disquieting. It was a mocking smile, yet behind it there lurked--what? _What_ was the mystery of that proposal? “Well, I suppose you’ll be satisfied now,” said she. “I’m engaged.” “I don’t care anything about it,” declared he. “Let’s talk of something else.” They were facing each other now, not many steps apart; and the sight of her, in such high good humor, made it simply impossible for him to remain grumpy, or to pretend that he was. She went on: “I did it this morning--instead of coming to pose for you. I hope I didn’t put you out too much. I couldn’t think of any way to send you word.” “I wasn’t there,” said he. “I can finish the picture up here.” “Then you don’t need me any more?” inquired she. And the little hands she was stretching out to the blaze dropped pathetically to her side and up went her face to gaze into his mournfully. “I’ve done with models in America!” said he, laughing--not in very mirthful fashion, however.