"Oh, are you an artist?" she demanded eagerly.

He nodded, smiling.

"I'm trying to be."

"Let me look." She flashed past him and planted herself in front of the
easel.

"_Mais, c'est bon!_" she commented coolly. "Me, I know. We have good
pictures at home. This is a good picture."

The man with the grey eyes looked suitably impressed.

"I'm glad you find it so," he replied meekly. "I think it wants just one
thing more. If"--he spoke abstractly--"if the Fairy Queen were resting
just there"--his finger indicated the exact point on the canvas--"tired,
you know, because she had been dancing to one of the Mortals--lucky
beggar, wasn't he?--why, I think the picture would be complete."

Magda shot him a swift glance of comprehension. Then, without a word,
she moved towards the bole of a tree and flung herself down with all the
supple grace of a young faun. The artist snatched up his palette; the
pose she had assumed without a hint from him was inimitable--the slender
limbs relaxed and drooping exactly as though from sheer fatigue. He
painted furiously, blocking in the limp little figure with swift, sure
strokes of his brush.

When at last he desisted he flung a question at her.