“How funny,” she said musingly.

“Not at all”—­he returned—­“just a matter of business.”

“But it would be funny if I were to take you at your word,” she replied; suddenly breaking the pose and meeting his gaze squarely.  “Is it—­is it quite necessary for the mechanical something to look at me like that?”

“I said that you were to consider me as an article of furniture.  I didn’t say that I felt like a table or chair.”

“Oh!”

“Don’t look down; keep the pose, please,” came somewhat sharply from the man at the easel, as though he were mentally taking himself in hand.

After that, she watched him with increasing interest and, when he turned his head in that listening attitude, a curious, resentful light came into her eyes.

Presently, she asked abruptly, “What is it that you hear?”

“I thought I heard music,” he answered, coloring slightly and turning to his work with suddenly absorbing interest.

“The violin that so enchanted you when I came to break the spell?” she persisted playfully—­though the light in her eyes was not a playful light.

“Yes,” he answered shortly; stepping back and shading his eyes with his hand for a careful look at his canvas.

“And don’t you know who it is?”

“You said it was an old professor somebody.”

“That was my first guess,” she retorted.  “Was I right?”

“I don’t know.”

“But it comes from that little box of a house, next door, doesn’t it?”

“Evidently,” the artist answered.  Then, laying aside his palette and brushes he said abruptly, “That is all for to-day; thank you.”

“Oh, so soon!” she exclaimed; and the regret in her voice was very pleasing to the man who was decidedly not a mechanical something.

She started eagerly forward toward the easel.  But the artist, with a quick motion, drew a curtain across the canvas, to hide his work; while he checked her with—­“Not yet, please.  I don’t want you to see it until I say you may.”

“How mean of you,” she protested; charmingly submissive.  Then, eagerly—­“And do you want me to-morrow?  You do, don’t you?”

“Yes, please—­at the same hour.”

When the Quaker Maiden’s dress was safely hidden under her wrap, Mrs. Taine stood, for a moment, looking thoughtfully about the studio; while the artist waited at the door, ready to escort her to the automobile.  “I am going to love this room,” she said slowly; and, for the first time, her voice was genuinely sincere, with a hint of wistfulness in its tone that made him regard her wonderingly.

She went to him impulsively.  “Will you, when you are famous—­when you are a great artist and all the great and famous people go to you to have their portraits painted—­will you remember poor me, I wonder?”

“Am I really going to be famous?” he returned doubtfully.  “Are you so sure that this picture will mean success?”