CHAPTER XIII

Several days passed. Ross Burnett moved about the studio adjusting a canvas upon an easel, bringing out draperies, raising and lowering curtains, and peering into drawers and chests in a manner which betrayed an uncertain state of mind. At last he seemed to find what he was looking for--a drapery of soft gray material. This he cast over the back of the easel, walked back from it to the far side of the room where he put his head on one side and looked with half-closed eyes.

There was a clatter of the old French knocker. Burnett dropped his paint tubes and cigarette and opened the door.

"Am I late?" laughed Miss Darrow.

"You couldn't come too early," said Burnett. But he dubiously eyed the French maid who had entered bearing a huge portmanteau.

"I was so afraid to keep you waiting. You're not very angry?"

"I'm sure I've been here since dawn," he replied.

"Then let's not waste any time. Oh, isn't it charming! Where shall I go?"

He pushed open the door of the dressing room.

"I think you'll find the mirror fair," he said. "If there's anything----"

"How exciting! No. And I'll be out in a jiffy."

When the door was closed Burnett eyed the model-throne, the draperies, the chair, and the canvas, seeking a last inspiration before the imminent moment. He put a Japanese screen behind the chair and threw a scarlet drapery over one end of it, knocking at the rebellious folds to make them fall as he wished.

"Will I do?" asked the girl, radiantly emerging. She wore a black evening dress. The maid had thrown a filmy drapery over her which brought out the dull whiteness of the shoulders. "It is so different in the daytime," she said, coloring; "but father has always wanted it so. You know I haven't told him. It's to be a surprise."

Burnett's color responded to hers. He bowed his head. "You are charming," he murmured gallantly with a seriousness she could not fail to notice.

When Julie was dismissed to return at luncheon-time, Mr. Burnett conducted Miss Darrow to her throne and took his place before the canvas. She stood leaning easily upon the back of the chair, the lines of her slender figure sweeping down from the radiant head and shoulders into the dusky shadows behind her. She watched him curiously as he stood away from the easel to study the pose.

"If I only could--it's splendid so," he was murmuring, "but I wish you to sit."

She acquiesced without question. "I feel like a specimen," she sighed. "It's a terrible ordeal. I'm all arms and hands. _Must_ you squint?"

In Burnett's laugh all restraint was liberated to the winds.

"Of course. All artists squint. It's like the circular sweep of the thumb--a symbol of the craft."

He walked behind her and adjusted the screen, taking away the crimson drapery and putting a greyish-green one in its place.

"There," he cried, "just as you are. It's stunning."

She was leaning forward with an elbow on the chair arm, her hands clasped, one slender wrist at her chin.

"Really! You're awfully easy to please--I wonder if I shall do as well as Agatha."

He took up a charcoal--looked at its end, and made a slight adjustment of the easel. "Before we begin--there's one thing I forgot." He paused. "All painters are sensitive, you know. I'm rather queerer than most. I hope you won't care." The charcoal was now making rapid gyrations upon the surface of the canvas. "I'm awfully sensitive to criticism--in the early stages. I usually manage to pull out somehow--but in the beginning--when I'm drawing, laying in the figure--I don't like my canvas seen. Sometimes it lasts even longer. You won't mind not looking, will you?"

"I see. That's what the grey thing is for. I don't mind in the least; only I hope it will come soon. I'm wild to see. And please smoke. I know you want to."

The grateful Burnett drew forth his cigarette-case and while his model rested busied himself among his tubes of paint, squeezing the colors out upon the palette.

"If you only knew," he sighed, "how very difficult it seems." But the large brush dipped into the paint and Burnett worked vigorously, a fine light glowing in his eyes. Miss Darrow watched the generous flow from the oil cup mingling with the colors.

"What a lot of vermilion you use!"

"Hair," he replied. He seemed so absorbed that she said no more, and she didn't know whether to laugh or frown. Later she ventured:

"If it's carroty I'll never speak to you again. Please make it auburn, Mr. Burnett."

He only worked the more rapidly. He seemed to be dipping into every color upon the palette, in the center of which had grown a brown of the color of walnut-juice. This he was applying vigorously to the lower part of the canvas. When the palette was cleared he put it aside and sank back in a chair with a sigh.

"Rest," said the artist.

"I'm not in the least tired," she replied.

"But _I_ am. It takes it out of me to be so interested."

"Does it?" She leaned back in her chair, regarding him with a new curiosity. "Do you know," she added, "you are full of surprises----"

She ignored the inquiry of his upraised brows.

"----and paint," she finished with a laugh.

He ruefully eyed a discolored thumb. "I'm awfully untidy, I know. I've always been. In Paris they called me Slovenly Peter."

"I shouldn't say that--only----"

"What?"

"Only----" she indicated several streaks of black on his grey walking-suit. "Must one always pay such a price to inspiration?"

"Jove! That _was_ stupid. I always do, though, Miss Darrow." He examined the spots and touched them with the tips of his fingers. "It's paint," he finished, examining it with a placidity almost impersonal. "It doesn't matter in the least."

"And do you always smudge your face?" she asked sweetly. He looked at himself in the mirror. There was a broad streak of red across his forehead. He wiped it off with a handkerchief.

"Oh, please don't laugh."

He sank upon the edge of the throne, and then they both laughed joyously, naturally, like two children.

"I'm an awfully lucky fellow," he said, at last. "I feel like a feudal baron with a captured princess. Here are you, that most inaccessible of persons, the Woman of Society, doomed every morning for two weeks to play Darby and Joan with a man you've known only three days. How on earth can a fellow survive seeing a girl he likes behind cups of tea! It's rough, I think. Society seems to accomplish every purpose but its avowed one. Instead of which everybody plays puss-in-the-corner. A fellow might have a chance if the corners weren't so far apart. And I, just back from abroad with all the skeins of old friendship at a loose end, walk into your circle and quietly appropriate you for a fortnight--while your other friends go a-begging."

"They haven't begged very hard," she laughed. "If they had, perhaps they might be playing Darby and Joan, too. I've never tried it before. But I think it's rather nice----" She broke off suddenly.

"Do you know, I've rested _quite_ twenty minutes," she said after a moment. "Come, time is precious."

"That depends----"

She waited a moment for him to finish, but he said no more.

"How extraordinary!" she said with a pretty _mouë_. "I don't know whether I should be pleased or not."

"Can you blame me? The Forelock of Time hangs too temptingly," he laughed. "Of course, if you'd rather pose----" He took up his dripping brushes with a sigh.

"Oh, indeed, I don't care," she sank back in the chair. "Only don't you think--isn't that really what I'm here for?"

"It is time to pose, Miss Darrow," he said determinately.

But she made no move to get into the position.

"I haven't complained," and she smiled at him. "Your muse is difficult, and I'm the gainer. Really, I think I'd rather talk."

"And I'm waiting to go on with the portrait."

"I'll pose again on one condition----"

"Yes."

"That you put on overalls."

The brushes and palette dropped to his side. "That's rough on Slovenly Peter," he laughed. He set about squeezing the paint tubes, wiping the brush handles and edge of the palette. When the pose was over Julie appeared. The artist drew the grey drapery over the easel and helped Miss Darrow to descend.