cloud-cradled goddesses. You're an inspiration in yourself--for the
perfections of Olympus!" he added, laughing, "and that's no idle
compliment. But of course other artists have often told you this
before--as though you didn't have eyes of your own I And beautiful ones
at that!" He laughed again, turned and dragged a two-storied model-stand
across the floor, tossed up one or two silk cushions, and nodded to her.

"Don't be afraid; it's rickety but safe. It will hold us both. Are you
ready?"

As in a dream she set one little bare foot on the steps, mounted,
balancing with arms extended and the tips of her fingers resting on his
outstretched hand.

Standing on the steps he arranged the cushions, told her where to be
seated, how to recline, placed the wedges and blocks to support her
feet, chalked the bases, marked positions with arrows, and wedged and
blocked up her elbow. Then he threw over her a soft, white, wool robe,
swathing her from throat to feet, descended the steps, touched an
electric bell, and picking up a huge clean palette began to squeeze out
coils of colour from a dozen plump tubes.

Presently a short, squarely built man entered. He wore a blue jumper;
there were traces of paint on it, on his large square hands, on his
square, serious face.

"O'Hara?"

"Sorr?"