"
"When is he coming back, and where is he now?" she insisted.
"Your father, you half-crazy child, expects to return in a month--by the
first of June. And if you wish to wire or write him, let me know."
"Now I won't tell you _my_ secret," and she was off like a gale of wind.
Eloise shook her head and wondered.
In the atelier Hubert painted. Elaine sat on a dais, her hands folded in
her lap; about her head twisted nun's-veiling gave her the old-fashioned
quality of a Cosway miniature--the very effect he had sought. It was to
be a "pretty" affair, this picture, with its subdued lighting, the face
being the only target he aimed at; all the rest, the suave background,
the gauzy draperies, he would brush in--suggest rather than state.
"I'll paint her soul, that sensitive soul of hers which tremulously
peeps out of her eyes," he thought. Elaine was a patient subject. She
took the pose naturally and scarcely breathed during the weary sittings.
He recalled the early gossip and sought to evoke her as a professional
model. But he gave up in despair.
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