"Oh, stop that!" said Miss Greeby roughly.

"Why?" Lambert raised his eyebrows. "As a girl you always liked to be
thought manly, and said again and again that you wished you were a boy."

"I find that I am a woman, after all," sighed the visitor, dropping into
a chair and looking round; "with a woman's feelings, too."

"And very nice those feelings are, since they have influenced you to pay
me a visit in the wilds," remarked the artist imperturbably.

"What are you doing in the wilds?"

"Painting," was the laconic retort.

"So I see. Still-life pictures?"

"Not exactly." He pointed toward the easel. "Behold and approve."

Miss Greeby did behold, but she certainly did not approve, because she
was a woman and in love. It was only a pictured head she saw, but the
head was that of a very beautiful girl, whose face smiled from the
canvas in a subtle, defiant way, as if aware of its wild loveliness. The
raven hair streamed straightly down to the shoulders--for the bust of
the model was slightly indicated--and there, bunched out into curls. A
red and yellow handkerchief was knotted round the brows, and dangling
sequins added to its barbaric appearance. Nose and lips and eyes, and
contours, were all perfect, and it really seemed as though the face were
idealized, so absolutely did it respond to all canons of beauty. It was
a gypsy countenance, and there lurked in its loveliness that wild,