eness in my life."

"I will be as evasive as possible," said Kenwick, somewhat nettled; "but
it's rather late to impose conditions."

"Am I holding the poppies right?" asked May, after what seemed to her a
long interval of silence. "I'm afraid they will begin to droop pretty
soon."

"The poppies are all right," Geoffry assured her.

"Does that mean the rest of it isn't? I posed for the girls in a studio
once, and they said I did it very well."

"Girls usually pose well," Kenwick observed; upon which May concluded,
most illogically, that he was conceited.

Pauline, meanwhile, had not turned toward the other gondola which lay
astern of theirs. She was watching her sister and wishing she could
sketch. She thought, if she could, she would rather do her as she
received the poppies from the hands of the gondolier. She had one of her
prettiest looks then, and the little touch of action was more
characteristic. There was something conventional, and therefore not
quite natural in this passive pose; May was not in the habit of sitting
still to be looked at.

"Would you like to see, Miss Beverly?"

The other gondola had glided up close alongside, and Daymond held out
his sketch. Faithful to his bond, and to his professed disabilities, he
had scarcely hinted at the face, but the pose was charmingly successful,
and the scheme of colour was all he had promised. Bright as the poppies
were, and well as they were indicated, without being individualised, in
the sketchy handling, the really high light of the picture was caught in
the golden hair, which gleamed against the silvery blending of water
and sky, and was thrown into still brighter relief by the graceful black
prow curving beyond it, but a little off the line.

"It is lovely," said Pauline, as she handed it to May.

"How pretty!" cried May; and then, recovering her presence of mind: "I
don't see how you got such a good red."

Uncle Dan, meanwhile, was examining Kenwick's sketch.

"How the devil did you get that likeness?" he exclaimed, forgetting, for
an instant, the condition he had made.

"Then the thing is forfeited," Kenwick remarked.

"That's a fact," the Colonel answered, turning up on the artist a glance
of quick distrust. "What's to be done about it?"

"That is for you to say," Kenwick replied. "The sketch is yours."

The Colonel's face flushed. He had a very lively appreciation of a
graceful act, and he was really delighted with the picture.

"Why, b