She smiled, and sank down on the low couch, with negligent grace. One arm fell loosely by her side, the other supported her cheek.
"Do not stir," eagerly cried Cornelius: "that is the very attitude! Oh! Miriam, what a glorious picture it will make!" and walking round her, he surveyed her keenly.
"You think of nothing but your pictures," she said, impatiently.
"Why do you tempt me? Just allow me to move your left arm."
With chilling indifference, she passively allowed him to move her beautiful arms at his pleasure.
"There!" he said, drawing back, "it is perfect now."
"Outstretched! theatrical!" she replied ironically.
"Can you mend it?" asked Cornelius, looking piqued.
She did not answer, but by just drawing in a little, and bending more forward, she threw into her face, into her look, attitude, and bearing, a strange intensity of eager watchfulness, that made her fixed gaze seem as if piercing the depths of an invisible horizon. Cornelius looked at her with wonder and admiration.
"That is indeed Medora," he frankly said at length: "Oh! Miriam, never tell me, after this, you do not care for Art! and now be merciful, let me sketch you thus."