made him paint rather than model.

"It's no place," he muttered, "except for color and for a poet. A man
would have to shut himself up in a cellar to escape those glorious hills
and the bay, if he wanted to work at that putty." He cast a contemptuous
glance at a rough bust of his Cousin Della, the only thing he had
attempted. As a solution of his hopeless problem he picked up a pipe and
was hunting for some tobacco, preparatory to a stroll up Newport, when
someone sounded timidly at the show knocker of the front door.

"Is that you, Miss Marston?" Clayton remarked, in a disappointed tone, as
a middle-aged woman entered.

"The servants were all away," she replied, "and Della thought you might
like some lunch to recuperate you from your labors." This was said a
little maliciously, as she looked about and found nothing noteworthy going
on.

"I was just thinking of knocking off for this morning and taking a walk.
Won't you come? It's such glorious weather and no fog," he added,
parenthetically, as if in justification of his idleness.

"Why do you happen to ask me?" Miss Marston exclaimed, impetuously. "You
have hitherto never paid any more attention to my existence than if I had
been Jane, the woman who usually brings your lunch." She gasped at her own
boldness. This was not coquettishness, and was evidently unusual.

"Why! I really wish you would come," said the young man, helplessly. "Then
I'll have a chance to know you better."