The Saint Paul globe. (St. Paul, Minn.) 1896-1905, 1902-02-02

Copyright. 1902, by Daily Story Pub Co.
you must paint no more today. L am
sure you are very tired
mo, I'm not. Sit still for moment
at least. That pose is perfect. Why dc
you say 1 shall work no more today?"
"Because-well, because I am restless
and another half hour of this dead-in-Iife
posing would drive me mad, / think
Because you are tired, too, and neeC
recreation. Let me see the picture
She left her seat and came to the
side of the artist, resting one white
slender hand lightly on his arm. lie
: trembled at the touch and a crimson
flush swept into his cheeks.
ooh. Mr.. Bertrand, this will never dc
at ALL She leaned forward to scan the
painting, and he could feel her breath
in his hair. IL have not such a sad
tender look in my eyes, now have I?''
Looking up at her command he met
her gaze, and his whole being thrilled
with a harmony, as of winds in far of
rushes. His lips trembled and the room
swan as in a mist. For an instant there
was nothing in the world but the beau
tiful light in those large, gray eyes.
There, now, you know they are gray
not blue. And they haven't the lCok
you have given them at all. Have they?
She was by the window now, looking
over her shoulder at him laughing softly.
What a strange creature she was! He
wished he knew more of her She had
come to him some weeks before. saying
she had seen some of his portraits in the
exhibition and was pleased with them.
The artist, too, had been pointed out to
her, and she had liked him because he
was big and leonine, and had tender
look in the brown eyes under the heavy
browS. Something of all this she had
told him at the first meeting, but in an
indirect, elusive way, so that the rec0l-
lection of it came afterward in flashes.
not as a whole. Then she had ordered
portrait of herself, made arrangements
for sittings in his studio, placed in his
hand handsome deposit on the order
and gone away, leaving behind her the
faint odor of violets.
You have studied me long enough now
TO see your wrong" she cried with a
merry laugh, and Bertrand blushed again
TO know how he had forgotten the pres
ent in that moment of retrospection.
And no wonder" she continued, settling
gracefully into the window seat and
clasping her hands in her lap. This is
the ninth sitting, and today for the first
time You have really looked at me- Hour
after hour have l sat stiff1y staring at
the blank wall while you mixed and
brushed and touched and leaned back
to squint complacently at your work, but
never once did you look at me- What
are you to know of a woman, sir, mere
ly by glancing at her once in a while out
of the corners of your eyes?''
Her eyes danced with the fun of if all
The simplicity and naturaIness of this
tall, broad-shouIdered man with the head
and name of lion attracted her. and
she delighted in having him at her mercy
just as she would have delighted in sub
Jecting real king of the forest to her
will
If the portrait does not please you"
Please me! Of course it doesn't please
me. You have only to paint a gray robe
and veil and label it Sister Angelica
to make it complete I'm not that at all
l wouldn't mind going into some great
plcture-a battle scene in one of the old
cathedralS, for instance, where there is
color and action to tone up the religious
atmosphere, but nothing meek and de-
mure for me. There is enough wearing
a mask in real life without degrading art
with it. Art should tell the truth. And
truth ls"-she laughed again, low, mel
low, ripping cadence-"the truth is. Mr.
Bertrand, I'm not an angel, and you Will
have to change the eyes,
he looked first at her and then at the
painting on the easel and mentally
agreed with her. She OWNED as much,
and with a sudden change of manner,
cried passionately:
oh, l am so weary of this round of
frivolous nOthingness. You are no differ
ent than all the rest. You are shocked
that l should speak truth show nv feel
1ngs, once in my life before a natural
human being. And you an artist. I had
thought better of you. For me- it is nv
tate to be bound in the chains of con-
Ventionality. What if the chains be
golden? What if the prison be palace. is
II any the less a prison? I'd rather have
been born beggar girl, to cry songs in
the streets of some obscure Italian town
born to plan, work, strive, sing. dance
preak hearts and on their ruins rise to
something higher-better that than this
NE we lead, the rich of this new world,
uull, narrow, tame loveless"
The artist had risen and he stood re-
garding her with a troubled look. He
knew very little of women, and esoeciaIlv
OF women such as she. Down there in his
nome among the Virginia hills women
had been content to care for their homes
their husbands and their children. ~
love, to give and to expect little in re-
turn. Here, indeed, was a different sort
of creature
They We're in striking contrast. these
tWo as they stood there in the te1nto-
light of the studio. He tail. broad-shoul-
Oereo7 Dig or feature, with a great mop
OF black hair tumbling up from a wide,
high fcrehead-an awkward giant. tremh.
ling at the glance of creature he could
nave crushed between his thumb and
niger. She saw his embarrassment. and
her mood changed Seating herself upon
the edge of a couch, she clasped her
hands behind her head and laughed long
and merriIy.
Now you will under stand me better"
she cried, throwing him an arch glance:
anyway you will know that my eyes are
gray and that they are not full of unshed
tears; won't you?''
l shall know that they are such eyes as
no painter can hope to transfer to can
vas" he said sincerely
She was irresistible now and he took q
step toward her, raising his hand in nro-
test
No apologies she cried gaiIy spring
ing up from her seat You have been a