I don't know, Nan. I think I should rather like to paint it. Your
soul would be an intricate piece of work."

"I'm sure it wouldn't make nearly as nice a picture as my face. I
think it's rather a plain soul."

"The answer to that is obvious," he replied lightly. "Well, I shall
talk to Trenby about the portrait. I suppose permission from
headquarters would be advisable?"

Nan made a small grimace.

"Of the first importance, my friend."

Rather to Nan's surprise, Roger quite readily gave permission for Rooke
to paint her portrait. In fact, he appeared openly delighted with the
idea that her charming face should be permanently transferred to
canvas. In his own mind he had promptly decided to buy the portrait
when completed and add it to the picture gallery at the Hall, where
many a lovely Trenby of bygone generations looked down, smiling or sad,
from the walls.

The sittings were begun out of doors in the tranquil seclusion of the
rose garden, Rooke motoring across to Mallow almost daily, and Nan
posed in a dozen different attitudes while he made sketches of her both
in line and colour, none of which, however, satisfied him in the least.

"My dear Nan," he exclaimed one day, as he tore up a rough charcoal
sketch in disgust, "you're the worst subject I've ever encountered---or
else my hand has lost its cunning! I can't get you--_you_--in the very
least!"

"Oh, Maryon"--breaking her pose to look across at him with a provoking
smile--"can't you find my soul, after all?"

"I don't believe you've got one. Anyway, it's too elusive to pin down
on canvas. Even your face seems out of my reach. You won't look as I
want you to. Any other time of the day I see just the expression on
your face want to catch--the expression"--his voice dropped a
shade--"which means Nan to me. But the moment you come out here and
pose, it's just a pretty, meaningless mask which isn't you at all."

He surveyed her frowningly.

"After all, it _is_ your soul I want!" he said vehemently.

He took a couple of quick strides across the grass to her side.

"Give it me, Nan--the heart and soul that looks out of your eyes
sometimes. This picture will never be sold. It's for me . . . me!
Surely"--with a little uneven laugh--"as I've lost the substance, you
won't grudge me the shadow?"

A faint colour ran up under her clear skin.

"Oh, I know it was my own fault," he went on. "There was a time, Nan,
when I had my chance, wasn't the