"Unless you like Kitty better," said Mees.

"Kitty--Kitty." Fräulein Vogel repeated it gravely. "Kitty." She smiled.
"Kitty Varing, of New York. Now I have it all."

"No," said Kitty, "not quite. Of Withlacootchie, New York."

They both laughed, the Indian name was so unmanageable. Kitty finally
wrote it down, and the painter pronounced it over and over again. At last
she straightened up, and said sternly,

"But where is the picture, Mees--Kitty?"

"Ah, you don't want to see it," Kitty exclaimed; "and I don't want to show
it to you. I tell you I have no talent. I suppose, though, patience must
tell in the end," she added, half to herself.

"Yes, it will tell," said the painter grimly. "It will tell--something.
Go get your picture now."

Kitty crossed the corridor to her own little room. There was the picture,
--a sketch in oils of the best-known model in DÃ¥sseldorf, this time rigged
out as a Roman peasant. The girl looked at the picture with a frown; she
seized it as though she would dash it on the floor in scorn, but, checking
the impulse, she carried it to Fräulein Vogel.

The successful painter looked at the sketch in silence for a full minute,
holding it off at arm's length. Finally, she laid it down on the table,
murmuring, "And after three years' hard work!"