There came a stage in his work when it did not especially matter whether he had a model or not. He let her continue to come, however—while he evolved how best to effect the separation. He felt certain she was simply making use of him in whiling away leisure hours that would otherwise bore her; still, courtesy demanded that, in ridding himself of her, he show consideration for her. After all, she had been most valuable to him, had helped him to make what he hoped would be regarded as far and away the best picture he had ever produced. “Never again!” he swore solemnly. “Never again will I work with anyone I can’t pay off and discharge. Free labor is the most expensive. Something for nothing takes the shirt off your back when you come to pay.”
She was posing in her canoe, well out from the shore. He was laboring at an effect of luminous shadow that would better bring out the poetry he had been striving to put into the expression of her face. A slight sound made him glance at the other shore of the lake—about two hundred yards away, in that little bay. At a point where his model’s back was full toward them, two young men were standing staring at her. The expression of their faces, of their bodies, made them a living tableau of the phrase, “rooted to the spot.” At first glance he was angered by their impertinence; but directly came an intuition that something out of the ordinary was about to happen. Swift upon the intuition followed its realization. One of the young men—the shorter, much the shorter—shouted in a voice of angry amazement:
“Beatrice!”
That shout acted upon Roger’s model like the shot from a gun it so strongly suggested. She glanced over her shoulder, lost her balance. Up went her arms wildly; with a shriek of dismay she rolled most ungracefully into the water. Her flying heels gave the capsized canoe a kick that sent it skimming and bobbing a dozen yards away. Roger lost no time in amazement at the sudden and ridiculous transformation of the serene tranquillity of the scene. The girl was head downward; her agitated heels were more than merely ludicrous, they were a danger signal. He flung down palette and brush, dashed into the shallow water, strode rapidly toward where Rix was struggling to right herself. He soon arrived, reached under, seized her by the shoulder and brought her right side up. She splashed and spluttered and gasped, clinging to him, he holding her in his arms. It would have been impossible to recognize the lovely and charming model of two minutes before in this bedraggled and streaming figure. Yet it was obvious that for Roger there was even more charm than before. He was holding her tightly and was displaying an agitated joy in her safety out of all proportion to the danger she had been in.
“What a mess!” she exclaimed, as soon as she could articulate. “Where are those two?”
He glanced across the bay, located them running along the shore, making the wide detour necessary to getting to where he had stood painting her. “They’re coming,” said he. He spoke gruffly and tried to disengage himself.
Still clinging to him she cleared her eyes of water and looked. “Yes, I see,” gasped she. “How cold it is! The one ahead is my brother. About the only thing he can do is sprint. So he’ll get here first. You must act as if you knew him—must call him Heck—that’s the short for Hector. I’ll prompt him all right.”
“Come on. Let’s wade ashore.” Again he tried to release himself from her. “The water’s not four feet deep.”
“Don’t let go of me,” pleaded she. “I’m a little weak—and oh, horribly cold!” And she took a firmer hold.