“What a queer little place it is!” he reflected, as he looked about.  “All sorts of odds and ends stuck about helter-skelter, and the house-keeping things trying to masquerade as bric-a-brac.”

Cora Price looked decidedly sulky when she realized that the Painter intended to stay, and seeing this he became rooted in his intention.  He wondered why she took this particular attitude towards him, and concluded she was piqued because of his delay in calling.  She acted like a spoiled child, and caused Miss Snell, who was overcome by his condescension in staying, no little embarrassment.

It was quite evident from her behavior that Miss Price was impressed with her own importance as the beneficiary of the Lynxville Prize Fund, and would require the greatest deference from her acquaintances in consequence.

“Here, Cora, try this,” said Miss Snell, planting a small three-legged stool on a rickety model-stand.

“Might I make a suggestion?” said the Painter, coolly.  “I should push back all the hair on her forehead; it gives a finer line.”

“Why, of course!” said Miss Snell.  “I wonder we never thought of that before.  Cora dear, you are much better with your hair back.”

Cora said nothing, but the Botticelli profile glowered ominously against a background of sage-green which Miss Snell was elaborately draping behind it.

“If I might advise again,” the Painter said, “I would take that down and paint her quite simply against the gray wall.”

Miss Snell was quite willing to adopt every suggestion.  She produced her materials and a fresh canvas, and began making a careful drawing, which, as it progressed, filled the Painter’s soul with awe.

“I feel awfully like trying it myself,” he said, after watching her for a few moments.  “Can I have a bit of canvas?”

“Take anything,” exclaimed Miss Snell; and he helped himself, refusing the easel which she wanted to force upon him, and propping his little stretcher up on a chair.  Miss Snell stopped her drawing to watch him commence.  It made her rather nervous to see how much paint he squeezed out on the palette; it seemed to her a reckless prodigality.

He eyed her assortment of brushes dubiously, selecting three from the draggled limp collection.

Cora was certainly a fine subject, in spite of her sulkiness, and he grew absorbed in his work, and painted away, with Miss Snell at his elbow making little staccato remarks of admiration as the sketch progressed.  Suddenly he jumped up, realizing how long he had kept the young model.

“Dear me,” he cried, “you must be exhausted!” and he ran to help her down from the model-stand.

She did look tired, and Miss Snell suggested tea, which he stayed to share.  Cora became less and less sulky, and when at last he remembered that he had come to see her work, she produced it with less unwillingness than he had expected.