The dress I had chosen was of a dull red tint, not unlike that of Leighton’s picture, but I had no fear of seeming to copy Leighton.  What true artist ever fears he may be considered a copyist?  He knows the strength and vitality of his conception will need no spokesman when it appears.

I felt frightfully restless and excited, a mad longing filled me to get the first sketch on paper.  I hardly thought of Viola as Viola or my cousin then.  She was already the Phryne of Athens for me, but when suddenly a light knock came on the door outside my heart seemed to stand still and I could hardly find voice to say, “Come in.”  When she entered, dressed in her modern clothes and hat, and held out her hand, all the modern, mundane atmosphere came back and brought confusion with it.

“You said come early, so here I am,” she said lightly.  “Trevor,” she added, gazing at me closely, “you are looking awfully handsome, but so white and ill.  What is the matter?”

“I have been utterly wretched about the picture.  I know I ought not to accept your offer, but the temptation is too great.  If you feel the same as you did about it, I am going to ask you to pose for me this afternoon.”

“I do feel just the same, Trevor,” she answered earnestly.  “You can’t think how happy and proud I am to be of use to you.”

“You know what the picture is?” I asked her, holding her two hands and looking down into the great eyes raised confidently to mine.

“I want you to dress in all those red draperies, and then, standing on the dais, to drop them, let them fall from you.”

“Yes, I think I know exactly.  I will try, and, if I don’t do it rightly, you must tell me and we must begin again.”

She took off her hat and cloak and gloves.  Then she turned to me and asked for the dress.  I gave it to her and showed her how it fastened and unfastened with a clasp on the shoulder.

She listened quietly to my directions, then, gathering up all the thin drapery, walked to the screen and disappeared from my view.

I sat down waiting.  A great nervous tension held me.  I had ceased to think of the right or wrong of my action.  I was too absorbed now in the thought of the picture to be conscious of anything else.

When she came from behind the screen clothed in the red Athenian draperies her face was quite white, but composed and calm.  She did not look at me, but walked to the platform at once.  I had withdrawn to a chair as far from it as was practicable, divining that the nearer I was the more my presence would weigh upon her.  She faced me now on the dais, and very slowly began to unfasten the buckle on her shoulder.  I sat watching her intently, hardly breathing, waiting for the moment.

She was to me nothing now but the Phryne, and I was nothing but a pencil held in the hand of Art.