she seemed almost to speak from the canvas, filling the room with
charm. Here she leaned against a palm-trunk, her bare brown body
warm against its gray; there she stood on a white beach, a crimson
_pareu_ about her loins and hibiscus flowers in her hair.

"That Hinatini," said Seventh Man Who Wallows, speaking always in
what he supposed to be English. "She some pumkin, eh? Le Moine like
more better make _tiki_ like this than say book. She my niece."

The rich colors of the pictures sang like bugle-notes among the
shabby odds and ends of the studio. A cot, a broken chair or two, a
table smeared with paints, an old shoe, a pipe, and a sketch of the
Seine, gave me La Moine in his European birthright, but the absence
of any European comforts, the lack even of dishes and a lamp, told
me that Montmartre would not know him again. The eyes of the girl
who lived on the canvases said that Le Moine was claimed by the Land
of the War Fleet.

Turning from the dingy interior of his cabin, I saw in the sunlight
beyond the door his model in the life. Le Moine had not the brush to
do her justice. Vanquished Often, as Hinatini means, was perhaps
thirteen years old, with a grace of carriage, a beauty and perfection
of features, a rich coloring no canvas could depict. Her skin was of
warm olive hue, with tinges of red in the cheeks and the lips
cherry-ripe. Her eyes were dark brown, large, melting, childishly
introspective. Her hands were shapely, and her little bare feet,
arched, rosy-nailed, were like flowers on the sand. She wore the
thinnest of sheer white cotton tunics, and there were flamboyant
flowers in the shining dark hair that tumbled to her waist.