left hand with a graceful motion like one unsheathing a sword:

"I tell you I do the things which I do, as easily, as naturally, as
happily as any fool of a dicky-bird does his infernal twittering on an
April morning. God knows whether there's anything in my work or in his
twitter; but neither he nor I are likely to improve our output by
pondering and cogitation.... Please resume the pose."

She did so, her dark young eyes on him; and he continued painting and
talking in his clear, rapid, decisive manner:

"My name is Louis Neville. They call me Kelly--my friends do," he added,
laughing. "Have you ever seen any of my work?"

"Yes."

He laughed again: "That's more soothing. However, I suppose you saw that
big canvas of mine for the ceiling of the Metropolitan Museum's new
northwest wing. The entire town saw it."

"Yes, I saw it."

"Did you care for it?"

She had cared for it too intensely to give him any adequate answer.
Never before had her sense of colour and form and beauty been so
exquisitely satisfied by the painted magic of any living painter. So
this was the man who had enveloped her, swayed her senses, whirled her
upward into his ocean of limpid light! This was the man who had done
that miracle before which, all day long, crowds of the sober, decent,