What about a Bacchante?  She was a perfect study for that.  I always imagined—­perhaps from seeing antiques, where it is so represented, that the head of a Bacchante should have hair like this; and it is rare enough in English models.  Suppose I made a large picture—­The Death of Pentheus—­the king in Euripides’ tragedy of the Bacchae who in his efforts to put down the Bacchanalia was slain by the enraged Bacchantes.  Suppose I put this one in the foreground....  But then it seemed a pity to spoil such a lovely face with a look of rage....  Well, anyway, let me have a sketch first, and see what inspiration came to me.  I got up and looked amongst my odd possessions for a vine-leaf wreath I had.  When I found it and some ivy leaves, I came back to her and fastened them round her head, in and out of those wonderful vine-like tendrils of hair.  She sat demurely enough and very still while I did so, but when I wanted to unfasten the ugly modern bodice and turn it down from her throat so as to get the head well poised and free, she pressed her lips on my hand as it passed round her neck.

I drew my hand away.

“Don’t be silly, or I shan’t employ you,” I said with some annoyance.

She pushed out her crimson lips.

“You are too handsome to be an artist; they are mostly such guys.”

“Hush, be quiet now, be still,” I said, moving back from her to see if I had the effect I wanted.  I felt with a sudden rush of delight I had.  The face was just perfect now:  the head a little inclined, the leaves in the glossy hair, no more exact image of the idea the word Bacchante always formed in my mind could be imagined.

I sketched her head in rapidly.  I made two or three draughts of it in charcoal, then I got my colours and did a rough study of it in colour.  Her neck, like that of almost all Italians, was a shade too short, but round and lovely in shape and colour.  The time passed unnoticed, and it was only when the luncheon gong sounded I realised how long I had been at work.

I sprang up and gathered the sheets of paper together.

“That’s all now,” I said.  “I’ll take you again three to six.  Are you tired?” I added, as she got up rather slowly and took up her hat.

“No,” she answered, shaking her head.  “All that was sitting down; that’s easy.”

Her voice sounded flat, but I was too hurried to take much notice of it.  I wanted to get down to show Viola the work.

“Well, three o’clock then,” I repeated, and ran downstairs.

Viola was waiting in the dining-room, but not at the table.  I went over to the window where she was standing, and showed her the sketches.

“Oh, Trevor, how lovely; how perfectly beautiful!” she exclaimed, gazing at the charcoal head.

“You have done that well, and what a glorious face!”

I flushed with pleasure.

“I’m so glad you like it.  Come up this afternoon and see the model, see me work.  Say you’re out, and let’s have tea in the studio.”