farther still a lilac-tinted haze hung along the edges of the Bronx.

"All right, O'Hara. Much obliged. I won't need you again."

"Very good, Sorr."

The short, broad Irishman went out with another incurious glance aloft,
and closed the outer door.

High up on her perch she watched the man below. He calmly removed coat
and waistcoat, pulled a painter's linen blouse over his curly head,
lighted a cigarette, picked up his palette, fastened a tin cup to the
edge, filled it from a bottle, took a handful of brushes and a bunch of
cheese cloth, and began to climb up a stepladder opposite her, lugging
his sketch in the other hand.

He fastened the little sketch to an upright and stood on the ladder
halfway up, one leg higher than the other.

"Now, Miss West," he said decisively.

At the sound of his voice fear again leaped through her like a flame,
burning her face as she let slip the white wool robe.

"All right," he said. "Don't move while I'm drawing unless you have to."

She could see him working. He seemed to be drawing with a brush,
rapidly, and with, a kind of assurance that appeared almost careless.

At first she could make out little of the lines. They were all dark in