has been on exhibition quite long enough. It is
high time she was turned face to the wall to
meditate, and grow more modest.''

Bertram did not answer. Neither did he make
a move to assist her. His ardent gray eyes were
following her slim, graceful figure admiringly.

``Billy, it doesn't seem true, yet, that you're
really mine,'' he said at last, in a low voice shaken
with emotion.

Billy turned abruptly. A peculiar radiance
shone in her eyes and glorified her face. As
she stood, she was close to a picture on an easel
and full in the soft glow of the shaded lights
above it.

``Then you _do_ want me,'' she began, ``--just
_me!_--not to--'' she stopped short. The man
opposite had taken an eager step toward her. On
his face was the look she knew so well, the look
she had come almost to dread--the ``painting
look.''

``Billy, stand just as you are,'' he was saying.
``Don't move. Jove! But that effect is perfect
with those dark shadows beyond, and just your
hair and face and throat showing. I declare,
I've half a mind to sketch--'' But Billy, with