Mickey was the name Katherine had given to Carroll's model, who was posing for his "Aurora." She had the fair skin and blue eyes with which Ireland compensates her daughters for a somewhat unlovely mouth, and her hair was a flaming auburn glory which he tried in vain to paint. It was a little startling until you knew Mickey. People who could pass hundreds without noting age, colour, or condition of servitude, would stop and gasp as she went by. But those who were privileged to know her intimately became so absorbed in contemplation of her manifold character that mere externals were passed unnoticed.
"Mickey did pretty well to-day," he said. "She put on your best hat while I was out, and I found her strutting before the mirror when I came back. I declare to you, solemnly, Katherine, that the effect of your violets against that hair was absolutely fortissimo. She will wear it to church some day if we don't watch her. But she didn't cut my brushes into scallops, nor assist in the painting when my back was turned. No, on the whole Mickey has been angelic. How did things go with you?"
"About as usual, though I believe more than the usual number of freaky people have been in. They ask for everything from money and advice, up to a letter of introduction to the managing editor. They seem to think that a woman tied down to a newspaper desk, has only to beckon and the universe hastens to do her bidding. You remember I told you about the woman who came in last week with a yearning to do 'lit'ery work'?"
Robert nodded.
"She was in again to-day. She is doing 'lit'ery work' and likes it very much. What do you suppose it is?"
"Give it up."
"Addressing envelopes! Did you ever?"
"Great idea," said Robert, "I'll tell Mickey, and perhaps she'll clean my brushes. Mickey shall be an artist."