vast blank window with its amber curtains stared at her; she lifted her
tragic gaze and saw the sheet of glass above swimming in crystal light.
Through it clouds were dissolving in the bluest of skies; against it a
spiderweb of pendant cords drooped from the high ceiling; and she saw
the looming mystery of huge canvases beside which stepladders rose
surmounted by little crow's-nests where the graceful oval of palettes
curved, tinted with scraped brilliancy.

"What a dreamer you are!" he called across the studio to her. "The light
is fine, now. Hadn't we better take advantage of it?"

She managed to find her footing; contrived to rise, to move with
apparent self-possession toward the folding doors.

"Better hurry," he said, pleasantly. "If you're what I need we might
start things now. I am all ready for the sort of figure I expect you
have."

She stepped inside the room and became desperately busy for a moment
trying to close the doors; but either her hands had suddenly become
powerless or they shook too much; and when he turned, almost
impatiently, from his easel to see what all that rattling meant, she
shrank hastily aside into the room beyond, keeping out of his view.

The room was charming--not like the studio, but modern and fresh and
dainty with chintz and flowered wall-paper and the graceful white
furniture of a bed-room. There was a flowered screen there, too. Behind
it stood a chair, and onto this she sank, laid her hands for an instant
against her burning face, then stooped and, scarcely knowing what she
was about, began to untie her patent-leather shoes.