yet."

He laughed a little.

"I haven't the least intention of telling you," he replied. "'The
Wielitzska' doesn't need advice as to how to pose."

Magda looked at him uncertainly.

"But you've given me no idea of what you want," she protested. "I must
have some idea to start from!"

"I want a recumbent Circe," he vouchsafed at last. "Hence the divan.
Here is the goblet"--he held it out--"supposed to contain the fatal
potion which transformed men into swine. I leave the rest to you. You
posed very successfully for me some years ago--without my issuing any
stage directions. Afterwards you played the part of a youthful Circe, I
remember. You should be more experienced now."

She flushed under the cool, satirical tone. It seemed as though he
neglected no opportunity of impressing on her the poor estimation in
which he held her. Her thoughts flew back to a sunlit glade in a wood
and to the grey-eyed, boyish-looking painter who had kissed her and
called her "Witch-child!"

"You--you were kinder in those days," she said suddenly. She made a few
steps towards him and stood looking up at him, her hands hanging loosely
clasped in front of her, like a penitent school-girl.

"Saint Michel"--and at the sound of her old childish name for him he
winced. "Saint Michel, I don't think I can sit for you if--if you're
going to be unkind. I thought I could, but--but--I can't!"

"Unkind?" he muttered.

"Yes," she said desperately. "Since I came here you've said a good many
hard things to me. I--I dare say I've deserved them. But"--smiling up
at him rather wanly--"it isn't always easy to accept one's deserts."
She paused, then spoke quickly: "Couldn't we--while we're here
together--behave like friends? Just friends? It's only for a short
time."

His face had whitened while she was speaking. He was silent for a little
and his hand, grasping the side of the big easel, slowly tightened its
grip till the knuckles showed white like bone. At last he answered her.

"Very well--friends, then! So be it."

Impulsively she held out her hand. He took it in his and held it a
moment, looking down at its slim whiteness. Then he bent his head and
she felt his lips hot against her soft palm.

A little shaken, she drew away from him and moved towards the divan. She
paused beside it and glanced down reflectively at the goblet she still
carried in her hand, mentally formulating her conception of Circe before
she posed. An instant later and he