There was, no doubt, a difficulty in obtaining
a model of sufficient beauty.

Miss Humpage listened with calm disdain, as
Mrs. Goodall, affecting to dust some pet china,
detailed by instalments the above particulars,
but the idea of allotting nine days for the
completion of such a work, by such a hand, almost
upset her gravity.

Nine days? Nurse must have been mistaken
in that. It was no matter.

Mrs. Goodall vindicated her memory.
Remembered distinctly, 'cause of the poor young
man.

How, because of—— It did not signify. Miss
Humpage required her smallest scissors.

Him that was all but a dying a few days ago,
to think of tossing on the salt seas.

Salt or fresh, the very mention brought a
bright colour to Miss Polly's cheek.

Was— was he going abroad, then? She
thought— that— it really was of no consequence.
And a bit of bobbin.

But the glances at the window were more
frequent that day.

A Turkish lady, whose rich husband had
dowered and deserted her, told a friend of the
writer's that her heart was changed to "black
velvet." Too frequent association with a similar
material was certainly beginning to tell on
Polly's.

The picture proceeded, nay, rather went
dashing, plunging on towards completion. With
the exception of the hour allotted to dinner,
the artist passed his whole time, till dusk,
at the easel, turning, with the regularity of
the clock itself, at the stroke of one, casting
up his fine eyes at that always-obstinate blind,
but never suffered them to stray abroad. Once,
Polly thought of placing herself experimentally
at the window, irrespective of any hour, but
this idea was smothered as soon as born. It
was too like asking an alms, and though her
heart was full of tears, and bursting for charity,
better die than demand it.

The situation was becoming intolerable. There
was something worrying in this speechless
misunderstanding, to which the ordinary
opportunities of reconciliation were denied. What a
very irritable young man Mr. Arthur Haggerdorn
must be! All this anger and— and— obstinacy,
for a little caprice! And even if it were a
caprice, was it not fit, and maidenly, and— and—
so far from vexing herself any more about this
person, or even thinking about him . . . . . What
could he mean, now, by retaining that face— his
heroine's— blank? Artists loved to introduce
familiar faces into their more important
compositions. Mr. Haggerdorn might have a
relative, a cousin, some friend, you know, or even
a strange countenance might have caught his
errant fancy. Now whose ? It (the face) must
be beautiful, or it would spoil all. Polly
chanced to look up, and caught sight in the glass
of a cheek so dyed in blushes, that she stamped
her little foot with passion.

"I think I am bewitched," said Polly-my-
Lamb. "But I'll be stronger than the spell.
Snap. There it goes! Henceforth, till I am
mistress of my own thoughts, I'll— sit in the
next room. Intrude there if you can!"

As she flung the defiance towards the object
apostrophised, Polly involuntarily accompanied
it with a parting look. As she did so, the little
hands tightened on the velvet arms of the chair,
she half lifted herself with unconscious
contraction of the muscles, while the rich colour
flickered like a furling banner, and passed utterly
away.

Another figure was visible in the artist's room.
A beautiful— ah, how beautiful!— face looked
gaily up to the head that crowned the black
velvet body. Clear olive skin, dazzling teeth,
almond eyes, braided hair— the Portuguese
beauty herself! If such had been the real
fugitive, far less surprising is it that five
rational individuals, with no particular interest
in the matter, and each, probably, with an Inez
of his own, should have taken post upon that
slippery bridge, with the certainty that if the
enemy did not pitch them over, the artist would.

The two were not alone. A very tall gentleman,
with long, drooping moustaches, was
apparently engaged in criticising the unfinished
picture, but not enjoying the undivided attention
of his two companions.

Polly-my-Lamb, from her position, invisible to
the party, remained, in a manner, fascinated by
the scene. Presently a change took place in the
grouping. A chair was raised and carefully
adjusted upon a small platform. The young
lady, with a laugh, shook her lustrous hair into
disorder, threw a wild look into her splendid
eyes, and placed herself in the chair in the
attitude of a " sitter." The father— or is it
brother?— or is it guardian?— likewise assumes
a position, and, to appear perfectly at ease, takes
out a cigarette.

And Inez sits, looking like Cleopatra at her
very best— perhaps when she gave that first
state-dinner to hook-nosed Julius, and all the
worries about Antony were as yet unwritten on
her soft brown cheek; and Inez smiles, and
pouts, and tosses her proud little head, and—
what is that scintillation? The sparkle of her
eye? No. On my sincerity, she is smoking
too!

Inez was evidently a very wilful, petted person,
one accustomed to give a considerable amount
of trouble. She appeared to talk incessantly,
holding the cigarette all the while between her
pearly teeth. She skipped off the chair at
intervals of three-quarters of a minute to peep
over the artist's shoulder, and see what progress
had been made. She roused the tall cavalier,
who had subsided into a doze, and ordered him
to tie her sandal, holding out her small foot
from the dais. As for young Haggerdorn, he
painted faithfully on, as for very life; and well
he might, for, in a brief space, Señora Inez,
starting suddenly to her feet, threw down the