farm, then they can ride in turns and won't get tired. Mrs. Donnithorne
is very good-natured about lending it. Constable, you run and ask her,
while we go to fetch Romola. Do you care to come to the studio?"

Mavis and Merle were only too delighted to have the opportunity of taking
a peep into Mr. Castleton's den, so followed Beata to the old sail-room
down a flight of steps cut in the cliff side. They remembered the place,
for Job Helyar used to plait osiers there, and they had come once to buy
a basket from him. In its former days it had been nothing but a rough
shed. They hardly recognised it now it was turned into a studio. Beata
went boldly in, and introduced her visitors. Her father was painting a
study of Romola for incorporation in a large historical picture. She was
standing on the throne, in a beautiful scarlet mediaeval costume, with
her long fair hair unbound and flowing like an amber waterfall down her
back. Mr. Castleton did not look at all pleased at being interrupted in
his work, but he glanced at his watch and nodded a reluctant permission
to Romola to relieve her pose. She came down from the platform,
stretching her tired arms.

"I'm supposed to be holding up a casket, and it's a horrid position to
keep," she explained. "May I go now, Dad? We want Mavis and Merle to take
us for a walk. I shan't be three seconds changing out of this costume.
You think the study is like me, Mavis? Show them the sketch for the
picture, Dad! Now you see where my place will be in it--just there. The
little page-boy is Constable, and Violet sat for the queen."

While Romola slipped off her mediaeval robe and plaited her long hair,
Beata escorted the visitors back to the garden. She fetched a pair of
field-glasses, took a survey through them, then declared: