in such an incredibly swift and brilliant way as to be the envy of all her contemporaries,—­she was hardly as grateful for her honours as weary of them and a little contemptuous.  What did it all matter to her when half of her once busy working mornings were now often passed in the studio of Amadis de Jocelyn!  He was painting a full-length portrait of her—­a mere excuse to give her facilities for visiting him, and ensure his own privacy and convenience in receiving her—­and every day she went to him, sometimes late in the afternoons as well as the mornings, slipping in and out familiarly and quite unnoticed, for he had given her a key to the private door of his studio, which was reached through a small, deeply shaded garden, abutting on an old-fashioned street near Holland Park.  She could enter at any time, and thought it was the customary privilege accorded by an artist to his sitter, while it saved the time and trouble of the rheumatic “odd man” or servant whose failing limbs were slow to respond to a summons at the orthodox front entrance.  She would come in, dressed in her simple navy blue serge walking costume, and then in a little room just off the studio would change and put on the white dress which her lover had chosen as the most suitable for his purpose, and which he called the “portrait gown.”  It was simple, and severely Greek, made of the softest and filmiest material which fell gracefully away in enchanting folds from her childishly rounded neck and arms,—­it gave her the appearance of a Psyche or an Ariadne,—­and at the first sitting, when he had posed her in several attitudes before attempting to draw a line, she had so much sweet attractiveness about her that he was hardly to be blamed for throwing aside all work and devoting himself to such ardent delight in woman’s fairness as may sometimes fall to the lot of man.  While moving from one position to another as he suggested or commanded, she had playfully broken off one flower from a large plant of “marguerite” daisies growing in a quaint Japanese pot, close at hand, and had begun pulling off the petals according to the old fanciful charm—­“Il m’aime!—­un peu!—­ beaucoup!—­passionement!—­pas du tout!” He stopped her at the word “passionement,” and caught her in his arms.

“Not another petal must be plucked!” he whispered, kissing her soft warm neck—­“I will not have you say ‘Pas du tout!’”

She laughed delightedly, nestling against him.

“Very well!” she said—­“But suppose—­”

“Suppose what?”

“Suppose it ever came to that?”—­and she sighed as she spoke—­ “Then the last petal must fall!”

“Do you think it ever will or can come to that?” he asked, pressing a kiss on the sweet upturned lips—­“Does it seem like it?”

She was too happy to answer him, and he was too amorous just then to think of anything but her soft eyes, dewy with tenderness—­her white, ivory-smooth skin—­her small caressing hands, and the fine bright tendrils of her waving hair—­all these were his to play with as a child plays with beautiful toys unconscious of or indifferent to their value.