“All right,” he said under his breath, “you’re practically faultless.  I suppose you realise it!”

A scarcely perceptible shiver passed over her entire body, then, as he stepped back, his keen artist’s gaze narrowing, there stole over her a delicate flush, faintly staining her from brow to ankle, transfiguring the pallour exquisitely, enchantingly.  And her small head drooped forward, shadowed by her hair.

“You’re what I want,” he said.  “You’re about everything I require in colour and form and texture.”

She neither spoke nor moved as much as an eyelash.

“Look here, Miss West,” he said in a slightly excited voice, “let’s go about this thing intelligently.”  He swung another easel on its rollers, displaying a sketch in soft, brilliant colours—­a multitude of figures amid a swirl of sunset-tinted clouds and patches of azure sky.

“You’re intelligent,” he went on with animation,—­“I saw that—­somehow or other—­though you haven’t said very much.”  He laughed, and laid his hand on the painted canvas beside him: 

“You’re a model, and it’s not necessary to inform you that this Is only a preliminary sketch.  Your experience tells you that.  But it is necessary to tell you that it’s the final composition.  I’ve decided on this arrangement for the ceiling:  You see for yourself that you’re perfectly fitted to stand or sit for all these floating, drifting, cloud-cradled goddesses.  You’re an inspiration in yourself—­for the perfections of Olympus!” he added, laughing, “and that’s no idle compliment.  But of course other artists have often told you this before—­as though you didn’t have eyes of your own I And beautiful ones at that!” He laughed again, turned and dragged a two-storied model-stand across the floor, tossed up one or two silk cushions, and nodded to her.

“Don’t be afraid; it’s rickety but safe.  It will hold us both.  Are you ready?”

As in a dream she set one little bare foot on the steps, mounted, balancing with arms extended and the tips of her fingers resting on his outstretched hand.

Standing on the steps he arranged the cushions, told her where to be seated, how to recline, placed the wedges and blocks to support her feet, chalked the bases, marked positions with arrows, and wedged and blocked up her elbow.  Then he threw over her a soft, white, wool robe, swathing her from throat to feet, descended the steps, touched an electric bell, and picking up a huge clean palette began to squeeze out coils of colour from a dozen plump tubes.

Presently a short, squarely built man entered.  He wore a blue jumper; there were traces of paint on it, on his large square hands, on his square, serious face.

“O’Hara?”

“Sorr?”

“We’re going to begin now!—­thank Heaven.  So if you’ll be kind enough to help move forward the ceiling canvas—­”

O’Hara glanced up carelessly at the swathed and motionless figure above, then calmly spat upon his hands and laid hold of one side of the huge canvas indicated.  The painter took the other side.