Miss Rowrer entered.
She was tall and pink and blonde. She had distinguished features, with a wilful forehead and solid chin. Her beauty and her practice of outdoor sports gave her a self-confidence which was superb, while the prestige of the name of her father—the famous Chicagoan—and his colossal fortune were as nothing when she looked you in the face with her clear eyes, lighted up with intelligence. As soon as she entered the studio there seemed to be no one else there.
Miss Rowrer nodded familiarly to Caracal and the duke, habitués of the Comtesse de Donjeon’s teas, where she had made their acquaintance, as well as that of Phil, some months previously. She cast a discreet glance at Helia. As for Phil, whose pupil she was and whose talent she admired, she treated him as a friend.
They began talking immediately. Miss Rowrer spoke of her brother Will, of his yacht, still in the dock at Boston, but which was soon to sail for France; of his autumn cruise in the Mediterranean; then, changing the subject, she talked of art and literature, lightly, without pose.
“How can any one find time,” thought Helia, “to learn so many pretty things!”
“Is that your Morgana picture?” Miss Rowrer asked Phil, pointing to the great canvas. “That half-painted figure will doubtless be Morgana herself—it is very beautiful. But,” she added, as she turned to the duke, “explain it to me a little, will you? I am not acquainted with the subject.”
“What, Miss Rowrer! You know everything, and you don’t know the legend of Morgana!”
“Only by name,” said Miss Rowrer. “In my picture-books there used to be Bluebeard and ogres and ugly wolves, who made me afraid—and the good fairies Mélusine and Morgana, who delighted me. They did so much good with their magic wands!”
“Morgana is my ancestress,” said the duke. “She is my good genius. There is not a cottage in Morgania where her picture does not hang, next to the icons of the Virgin. In the winter evenings, around the fire, they recount her exploits and those of Rhodaïs and Bertha. Children grow up with it in their blood; they no more think of their country without its heroines than without its woods and mountains.”
“And what particular event have you chosen for this picture?” asked Miss Rowrer. “Is it the coming of Morgana?”