The first folds of crimson fell, disclosing her throat and shoulders, the others followed, piling softly one on the other to her waist, where they stayed held by her girdle.  The shoulders and breasts were revealed exquisite, gleaming white against the dull glow of the crimson stuff.  I waited.  It was a lovely, entrancing vision but I waited.  She lowered her hand from her shoulder and brought it to her waist, firmly and without hesitation she unclasped the belt, and then taking the sides of it, one in each hand, with its enclosed drapery, which parted easily in the centre, she made a half step forwards to free herself from it, and stood revealed from head to foot.  It was the moment.  Her head thrown up, with her eyes fixed far above me, her throat and the perfect breast thrown outwards and forwards, the slight bend at the slim waist accentuating the round curves of the hips, one straight limb with the delicate foot advanced just before the other, the arms round, beautifully moulded, held tense at her sides, as the hands clutched tightly the falling folds behind her, these made up the physical pose, and the pride, the tense nervousness, the defiance of her own feelings gave its meaning expression.  I raised my hand and called to her to pause just so, to be still, if she could, without stirring.

She quivered all through her frame at the sudden shock of hearing my voice; then stood rigid.  I had my paper ready, and began to sketch rapidly.

How beautiful she was!  In all my experience, in the whole of my career, I had never had such a model.  The skin was a marvellous whiteness:  there seemed no brown, red, or yellow shades upon it; nor any of that mottled soap appearance that ruins so many models.  She was white, with the warm, true dazzling whiteness of the perfect blonde.

My head burned:  I felt that great wave of inspiration roll through me that lifts the artist to the feet of heaven.  There is no happiness like it.  No, not even the divine transports and triumph of love can equal it.

I sketched rapidly, every line fell on the paper as I wished it.  The time flew.  I felt nothing, knew nothing, but that the glorious image was growing, taking life under my hand.  I was in a world of utter silence, alone with the spirit of divine beauty directing me, creating through me.

Suddenly, from a long distance it seemed, a little cry or exclamation came to me.

“Trevor, I must move!”

I started, dropped the paper, and rose.

The light had grown dim, the fire had burned hollow.  Viola had dropped to her knees, and was for the moment a huddled blot of whiteness amongst the crimson tones.  I advanced, filled with self-reproach for my selfish absorption.  But she rose almost directly, wrapped in some of the muslin, and walked from the dais to the screen.  I hesitated to follow her there, and went back to the fallen picture.  I picked it up and gazed on it with rapture—­how perfect