tint, thin, tinged with plum colour. There seemed to be no curves in
them--and at first she could not comprehend that he was drawing her
figure. But after a little while curves appeared; long delicate outlines
began to emerge as rounded surfaces in monochrome, casting definite
shadows on other surfaces. She could recognise the shape of a human
head; saw it gradually become a colourless drawing; saw shoulders, arms,
a body emerging into shadowy shape; saw the long fine limbs appear, the
slender indication of feet.

Then flat on the cheek lay a patch of brilliant colour, another on the
mouth. A great swirl of cloud forms sprang into view high piled in a
corner of the canvas.

And now he seemed to be eternally running up and down his ladder,
shifting it here and there across the vast white background of canvas,
drawing great meaningless lines in distant expanses of the texture,
then, always consulting her with his keen, impersonal gaze, he pushed
back his ladder, mounted, wiped the big brushes, selected others smaller
and flatter, considering her in penetrating silence between every brush,
stroke.

She saw a face and hair growing lovely under her eyes, bathed in an
iris-tinted light; saw little exquisite flecks of colour set here and
there on the white expanse; watched all so intently, so wonderingly,
that the numbness of her body became a throbbing pain before she was
aware that she was enduring torture.

She strove to move, gave a little gasp; and he was down from his ladder
and up on hers before her half-paralysed body had swayed to the edge of
danger.