CHAPTER I

THE GOLDEN GIRL

Under a canopied platform stood a young girl, modeling in clay. The
glare of the California sunshine, filtering through the canvas, became
mellowed, warm and golden. Above the girl's head--yellow like the
stalk of wheat--there hovered a kind of aureola, as if there had risen
above it a haze of impalpable gold dust.

A poet I know might have cried out that here ended his quest of the
Golden Girl. Straight she stood at this moment, lovely of face,
rounded of form, with an indescribable suggestion of latent physical
power or magnetism. On her temples there were little daubs of clay,
caused doubtless by impatient fingers sweeping back occasional wind
blown locks of hair. There was even a daub on the side of her handsome
sensitive nose.

Her hand, still filled with clay, dropped to her side, and a tableau
endured for a minute or two, suggesting a remote period, a Persian
idyl, mayhap. With a smile on her lips she stared at the living model.
The chatoyant eyes of the leopard stared back, a flicker of
restlessness in their brilliant yellow deeps. The tip of the tail
twitched.

"You beautiful thing!" she said.

She began kneading the clay again, and with deft fingers added bits