"I dunnaw."

"And yet you deserve it, Joan, for I don't think God ever made anything
prettier."

She blushed and looked softly at him, but took no alarm; for though such a
compliment had never before been paid her, yet, as Barron spoke the words,
slowly, critically, without enthusiasm or any expression of pleasure on his
face, they had little power to alarm. He merely stated what he seemed to
regard as a fact. There was almost a suggestion of irritation in his
utterance, as though his model's rare beauty only increased his own
artistic difficulties; and, perhaps fearing from her smile that she found
undue pleasure in his statement, he added to it:

"I don't say that to natter you, Joan. I hate compliments and never pay
them. I told you, remember, that your wrists were a thought too big."

"You needn't be sayin' it over an' over, Mister Jan," she answered, her
smile changing to a pout.

"But you wouldn't like me any more if I stopped telling you the truth. We
have agreed to love what is true and to worship Mother Nature because she
always speaks the truth."

The girl made no answer, and he went on working for a few moments, then
spoke again.

"I'm selfish, Joan, and think more of my picture than I do of my little
model. Put down your arm and take a good rest. I tried holding my hand over