“But I am not prepared now, how should I be dressed?”
“In a drapery, and I have all that is necessary. Say you will go,” he pleaded.
She hesitated a moment.
“Well, I will,” was the unfortunate answer.
Within an hour, master and model entered the studio.
“Now, first of all,” observed the master, “you must lay aside all reserve or foolish timidity, remembering the purity of art, and have but one thought—the completion of it. In that room to your right you will find everything that is needed, and over the couch is a study by which you may be guided in draping yourself.”
As the door closed behind Cherokee, Willard Frost caught a glimpse of a beautiful figure, “The Nymph of the Stream.” He listened for a couple of minutes or more, expecting or fearing she would be shocked at first, but as there was no such evidence he had no further misgivings. A thousand beautiful visions floated voluptuously through the thirsting silence. They flushed him as in the wakening strength of wine. And his body, like the sapless bough of some long-wintered tree, suddenly felt all pulses thrilling.
His hot lips murmured, “Victory is mine. Aye, life is beautiful, and earth is fair.”
Then the door opened and the model entered. She did not speak but stood straight and silent, her hands hanging at her side with her palms loosely open—the very abandonment of pathetic helplessness.
The master drew nearer and put out his hands. “Cherokee,” he said.