She paddled ashore, seated herself on a log a short distance before him, and rested while he filled in his notes. He glanced at her after a few minutes, was about to speak; instead he gave a grunt of satisfaction, fell to sketching her face; for the thoughts that were gilding her reverie gave her features precisely the expression of exalted, ethereal longing which he wished to put into the face in his picture. He worked feverishly, hoping she would not move and dissolve the spell until he had what he needed—enough to fix that expression.
A quarrel between two robins over a worthless twig which neither wanted startled her, drove the spiritual look from her features.
“But I got it,” said he. “Thank you.”
She looked at him questioningly.
“You’ve given me a second sitting—much better, because you didn’t realize it.”
“May I see?”
His sudden alarm revealed the profoundly modest man, uneasy about the merits of his unfinished work. “Not yet,” said he positively. “Wait till there’s something to look at.”
“Very well,” she acquiesced.
A certain note in her voice made him laugh. “You don’t care in the least about the picture—do you?”
“Yes, indeed,” protested she. But the attempt to conceal his having hit upon the truth was far from successful. She realized it herself. “I care only about the pay,” confessed she.