“We’ll have to give her a bath,” he said cheerfully. “She’s horribly dirty. And we’ve got to find out whether she can come regularly. But we can do that to-morrow. Let’s celebrate to-night. I know a wonderful little restaurant. By the way, her name’s Rosalie.”
They were still talking about the child when they returned late in the evening.
The next afternoon at a quarter of two the bell rang, and Rosalie was announced by a shocked and protesting doorman. Shortly after Rosalie herself appeared. Believing it her duty to do her best to make the picture a success, and feeling that the occasion demanded something out of the ordinary, the child had worn her best clothes and even gone to the length of a somewhat tentative washing. The dress—it was her Sunday one, she explained—was hideous, but Eloise, who was as fascinated by the child as her husband had been, with infinite tact persuaded her to put on some things they had bought for her the afternoon before.
Posing the child presented little difficulty. All Carlos asked was to have her sit in a little rocker with an open picture book in her lap, which Rosalie did with such a natural grace and unembarrassed manner that she might have been sitting in little rockers for her picture all her life. Her hair, which Eloise had loosened, hung in long curls that completely covered her shoulders, and from which the exquisite little face looked out like an ivory miniature in a golden frame. As he gazed speechless at the effect, Carlos knew that at last he had found his inspiration. He began feverishly to sketch in the first rough outlines of the portrait.
As long as the light lasted he worked rapidly, looking up at the child on the platform where the chair had been placed and down to the canvas, as he touched it with quick, sure strokes. Sometimes he paused, seemingly forgetful of the picture, looking for long intervals at the girl as if to draw her whole personality out of herself and place it on the canvas. Finally Rosalie began to become more and more restless, until Eloise was forced to interrupt the work.
“You’ll have to stop now, dear,” she said. “The poor child is tired out and it’s too dark now, anyway.”
Carlos paid no attention, but went on painting. All he said was, “Tell her to sit still. Can’t stop now.”
But at last she persuaded him to lay aside his brushes, so that Rosalie could go home, after promising faithfully to return the next afternoon. Carlos was triumphant.
“It’s going to be the best thing I ever did. The kid gets into me in a way I can’t explain, but I’m putting it in the picture.”