Long before Sam and Harry had ended their puppy-like scuffling and had retired to woo their respective deputy-muses, Rita was seated on the model-stand, and Neville had already begun that strange and sombre picture afterward so famous, and about which one of the finest of our modern poets wrote: 

  “Her gold hair, fallen about her face
  Made light within that shadowy place,
    But on her garments lay the dust
  Of many a vanished race.

  “Her deep eyes, gazing straight ahead,
  Saw years and days and hours long dead,
    While strange gems glittered at her feet,
  Yellow, and green, and red.

  “And ever from the shadows came
  Voices to pierce her heart like flame,
    The great bats fanned her with their wings,
  The voices called her name.

  “But yet her look turned not aside
  From the black deep where dreams abide,
    Where worlds and pageantries lay dead
  Beneath that viewless tide.

  “Her elbow on her knee was set,
  Her strong hand propt her chin, and yet
    No man might name that look she wore,
  Nor any man forget.”

All day long in the pleasant June weather they worked together over the picture; and if he really knew what he was about, it is uncertain, for his thoughts were of Valerie; and he painted as in a dream, and with a shadowy splendour that seemed even to him unreal.

They scarcely spoke; now and then Rita came silently on sandalled feet to stand behind him and look at what he had done.

The first time she thought to herself, “Querida!” But the second time she remained mute; and when the daylight was waning to a golden gloom in the room she came a third time and stood with one hand on his arm, her eyes fixed upon the dawning mystery on the canvas—­spellbound under the sombre magnificence already vaguely shadowed forth from infinite depth of shade.

Gladys came and rubbed and purred around his legs; the most recent progeny toddled after her, ratty tails erect; sportive, casual little optimists frisking unsteadily on wavering legs among the fading sunbeams on the floor.

The sunbeams died out on wall and ceiling; high through the glass roof above, a shoal of rosy clouds paled to saffron, then to a cinder gray.  And the first night-hawk, like a huge, erratic swallow, sailed into view, soaring, tumbling aloft, while its short raucous cry sounded incessantly above the roofs and chimneys.

Neville was still seated before his canvas, palette flat across his left arm, the sheaf of wet brushes held loosely.

“I suppose you are dining with Valerie,” he said.

“No.”

He turned and looked at her, inquiringly.

“Valerie has gone away.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know, Kelly....  I was not to know.”

“I see.”  He picked up a handful of waste and slowly began to clean the brushes, one by one.  Then he drove them deep into a bowl of black soap.