"Peggy is quite mad about her. They get along wonderfully. I wonder where the child is? She expected you."
"Ethra," said Peggy, "I've given her one of my new afternoon gowns. I made her take it, on a promise to let her pay me out of her salary. Mathilde is fussing over her still, I suppose." And to Warner: "I'm painting a head of her. She sits as still as a statue, but it's hopeless, Jim; the girl's too exquisite to paint——"
"I mean to try it some day," said Warner. "The way to paint her, Peggy, is to try to treat her as the great English masters of portraiture treated their grand ladies—-with that thoroughbred loveliness and grace—just a dash of enchanting blue sky behind her, and the sun-gilded foliage of stately trees against it, and her scarf blowing free——" He laughed. "Oh, I know how it ought to be done. We shall see what we shall see, some day——"
He ceased and turned his head. Philippa stepped out upon the terrace—the living incarnation of his own description.
Even Peggy caught her breath as the girl came forward.
"You beautiful thing!" she exclaimed. "You do belong in a golden frame in some great English castle!"
Philippa, perplexed but smiling, acknowledged Madame de Moidrey's presence and Peggy's, then turned to Warner with hand extended, as though she had not taken a similar leave of him an hour or two before.
"Everybody is so generous! Do you admire my new gown? Peggy gave it to me. Never have I possessed such a ravishing gown. That is why I am late; I stood at my mirror and looked and looked——"
She turned swiftly to Peggy: "Dear, I am too happy to know how to say so! And if Madame de Moidrey is contented with me——"
"You are too lovely for words, Philippa," said the Countess. "If Mr. Warner paints you that way, I shall wish to have the picture for myself."