Hilary spent two afternoons among his artist friends, trying, by means
of the indications he had gathered, to find a model for "The Shadow." He
had found one at last. Her name, Barton, and address had been given him
by a painter of still life, called French.

"She's never sat to me," he said; "my sister discovered her in the West
Country somewhere. She's got a story of some sort. I don't know what.
She came up about three months ago, I think."

"She's not sitting to your sister now?" Hilary asked.

"No," said the painter of still life; "my sister's married and gone
out to India. I don't know whether she'd sit for the half-draped, but I
should think so. She'll have to, sooner or later; she may as well
begin, especially to a woman. There's a something about her that's
attractive--you might try her!" And with these words he resumed the
painting of still life which he had broken off to talk to Hilary.

Hilary had written to this girl to come and see him. She had come just
before dinner the same day.

He found her standing in the middle of his study, not daring, as it
seemed, to go near the furniture, and as there was very little light,
he could hardly see her face. She was resting a foot, very patient, very
still, in an old brown skirt, an ill-shaped blouse, and a blue-green
tam-o'-shanter cap. Hilary turned up the light. He saw a round little
face with broad cheekbones, flower-blue eyes, short lamp-black lashes,
and slightly parted lips. It was difficult to judge of her figure in
those old clothes, but she was neither short nor tall; her neck was