re?"

She hesitated. Then:

"Perhaps there was--once," she acknowledged slowly.

"And I lost it! Well, I've paid for it every day of my life," he said
shortly. "And twice a day since your engagement," he added, with one
of those odd touches of whimsicality which were liable to cross even
his moments of deep feeling, giving a sense of unreality to them--a
something insincere.

"To get back to the picture--" suggested Nan.

He laughed.

"We can't get _back_--seeing we've never got there at all yet.
These"--with a gesture to the various sketches littering the lawn--"are
merely preliminary. When I begin the portrait itself, we'll retire
indoors. I think the music-room here will answer the purpose of a
studio very well."

"Two whole weeks!" observed Nan meditatively. "I fancy Roger will be
somewhat surprised that progress is so slow."

"Trenby? Pooh! It's not his picture. I shall have to explain to
him"--smiling--"that art is long."

"He'll get fidgety about it. You see, already we've stayed at home
several times when the others have arranged a picnic expedition."

"Choosing the better part," he retorted. "I should like to make one
more attempt this afternoon, if you're not too tired. See, your
arms . . . so! And I want your face the least bit tilted."

He put his hand very gently beneath her chin, posing her head as he
wished it. For a moment he held her so, her face cupped in his hand,
while his hazel eyes stared down at her with a smouldering fire in
their depths.

Slowly the hot colour crept into her face beneath his scrutiny.

"Maryon!" Her lips moved protestingly.

"I think you've got the shortest upper lip of any woman I know," he
said, calmly releasing her and going back to his easel. "And women
with short upper lips are the very devil."

He sketched rapidly for a time.

Her pose at the moment was practically perfect--the small head tilted a
little on the long round throat, while the slanting rays of the sun
turned the dusky hair into a shadowy, gold-flecked nimbus.

Rooke worked on in silence, though once as he looked across at her he
caught his underlip suddenly betwixt his teeth. She was so utterly
desirable--the curve of her cheek, the grace of her lissom body, the
faint blue veins that showed beneath the warm, ivory skin. And she was
going to be Trenby's wife!

"There!" he said abruptly. "That's the idea at last. Tomorrow we'll
begin the portrait itself."

Nan rose,