He bowed gravely and took off his cap, then turned to his easel; and she
blushed with a lively pleasure. She had seen gentlemen take off their hats
to ladies, but no man had ever paid her that respect until then, and it
seemed good to her. She marched off with her picture and her orange, but
did not eat the fruit until out of sight of Gorse Point.

The man painting there already began to fill a space in Joan's thoughts. He
knew so much and yet was glad to learn from her. He never laughed or talked
lightly. He put her in mind of her father for that reason, but then his
heart was soft, and he loved Nature and beautiful things, and believed in
fairies and spoke no ill of anybody. Joan speculated as to how these
meetings could be kept a secret and came to the conclusion it would not be
difficult to hide them. Then, reaching home, she hid her picture behind the
pig-sty until opportunity offered for taking it indoors to her own bedroom
unobserved.

As for John Barren, he felt kindly enough toward his model. He could hold
himself with an iron hand when he pleased, and proposed that the growing
friendship should ripen into a fine work of art and no more. But what might
go to the making of the picture could not be foretold. He would certainly
allow nothing to check inspiration or stand between him and the very best
he had power to achieve. No sacrifice could be too great for Art, and
Barron, who was now awake and alive for an achievement, would, according to
his rule, count nothing hard, nothing impossible that might add a grain of
value to the work. His own skill and Joan's beauty were brought in contact
and he meant to do everything a man might do to make the result immortal.
But the human instruments necessary to such work counted for nothing, and
their personal prosperity and welfare would weigh no more with him than the
future of the brushes which he might use, after he had done with them.