“Oh, just stand over there,” he said, vaguely; “just walk about and stop anywhere when you feel like stopping.”

She walked a few steps at hazard, partly turned to look back at him with a movement adorable in its hesitation.

“Don’t budge!” he said, brusquely.

“Am I to remain like this?”

“Exactly.”

He picked up a bit of white chalk, went over to her, knelt down, and traced on the floor the outline of her shoes.

Then he went back, and, with his superbly cool assurance, began to draw with his brush upon the untouched canvas.

From where she stood, and as far as she could determine, he seemed, however, to work less rapidly than usual—­with a trifle less decision—­less precision.  Another thing she noticed; the calm had vanished from his face.  The vivid animation, the cool self-confidence, the half indolent relapse into careless certainty—­all familiar phases of the man as she had so often seen him painting—­were now not perceptible.  There seemed to be, too, a curious lack of authority about his brush strokes at intervals—­moments of grave perplexity, indecision almost resembling the hesitation of inexperience—­and for the first time she saw in his gray eyes the narrowing concentration of mental uncertainty.

It seemed to her sometimes as though she were looking at a total stranger.  She had never thought of him as having any capacity for the ordinary and lesser ills, vanities, and vexations—­the trivial worries that beset other artists.

“Louis?” she said, full of curiosity.

“What?” he demanded, ungraciously.

“You are not one bit like yourself to-day.”

He made no comment.  She ventured again: 

“Do I hold the pose properly?”

“Yes, thanks,” he said, absently.

“May I talk?”

“I’d rather you didn’t, Valerie, just at present.”

“All right,” she rejoined, cheerfully; but her pretty eyes watched him very earnestly, a little troubled.

When she was tired the pose ended; that had been their rule; but long after her neck and back and thighs and limbs begged for relief, she held the pose, reluctant to interrupt him.  When at last she could endure it no longer she moved; but her right leg had lost not only all sense of feeling but all power to support her; and down she came with a surprised and frightened little exclamation—­and he sprang to her and swung her to her feet again.

“Valerie!  You bad little thing!  Don’t you know enough to stop when you’re tired?”

[Illustration:  “He picked up a bit of white chalk ... and traced on the floor the outline of her shoes.”]

“I—­didn’t know I was so utterly gone,” she said, bewildered.

He passed his arm around her and supported her to the sofa where she sat, demure, a little surprised at her collapse, yet shyly enjoying his disconcerted attentions to her.

“It’s your fault, Kelly.  You had such a queer expression—­not at all like you—­that I tried harder than ever to help you—­and fell down for my pains.”