“I’ve painted Miller’s kids in the open; I suppose the terrific influence of Sorolla has me in bondage for the moment.”  He laughed easily:  “But don’t worry; it will leave nothing except clean inspiration behind it.  I’ll think out my own way—­grope it out through Pantheon and living maze.  All I’ve really got to say in paint can be said only in my own way.  I know that, even when realising that I’ve been sunstruck by Sorolla.”

She listened demurely, watching him, her lips sensitive with understanding; and she laughed when he laughed away his fealty to the superb Spaniard, knowing himself and the untried strength within him.

“But when are you coming back to us, Duane?”

“I don’t know.  Father’s letters perplex me.  I’ll write you every day, of course.”

A quick colour tinted her skin: 

“And I will write you every day.  I will begin to-day.  Kathleen and I expect to be here in September.  But you will come back before that and keep Scott company; won’t you?”

“I want to get into harness again,” he said slowly.  “I want to settle down to work.”

“Can’t you work here?”

“Not very well.”

“Why?”

“To tell the truth,” he admitted, smiling, “I require something more like a working studio than Miller’s garret.”

“That’s what I thought,” she said shyly, “and Scott and I have the plans for a studio all ready; and the men are to begin Monday, and Miller is to take the new gate cottage.  Oh, the plans are really very wonderful!” she added hastily, as Duane looked grateful but dubious.  “Rollins and Calvert drew them.  I wrote to Billy Calvert and sent him the original plans for Hurryon Lodge.  Duane, I thought it would please you——­”

“It does, you dear, generous girl!  I’m a trifle overwhelmed, that’s all my silence meant.  You ought not to do this for me——­”

“Why?  Aren’t we to be as near each other as we can be until—­I am ready—­for something—­closer?”

“Yes....  Certainly....  I’ll arrange to work out certain things up here.  As for models, if there is nothing suitable at Westgate village, you won’t mind my importing some, will you?”

“No,” she said, becoming very serious and gravely interested, as befitted the fiancee of a painter of consequence.  “You will do what is necessary, of course; because I—­few girls—­are accustomed in the beginning to the details of such a profession as yours; and I’m very ignorant, Duane, and I must learn how to second you—­intelligently”—­she blushed—­“that is, if I’m to amount to anything as an artist’s wife.”

“You dear!” he whispered.

“No; I tell you I am totally ignorant.  A studio is an awesome place to me.  I merely know enough to keep out of it when you are using models.  That is safest, isn’t it?”

He said, intensely amused:  “It might be safer not to give pink teas while I am working from the nude.”

“Duane!  Do you think me a perfect ninny?  Anyway, you’re not always painting Venus and Ariadne and horrid Ledas, are you?”