Between Friends

Composition had been determined upon, and the sketch completed by

the middle of August; Cecile had sat for him every day from nine

until five; every evening they had dined together at the seashore or

other suburban and cool resorts. Together they had seen every summer

entertainment in town, had spent the cooler, starlit evenings

together in his studio, chatting, reading loud sometimes, sometimes

discussing he work in hand or other subjects of he moment, even

topics covering a wider and more varied range than he had ever

before discussed with any woman.

He seemed to have become utterly changed; the dark preoccupation had

been absent from his face--the gauntness, the grayness, seemed to

have become subdued; the deep lines of pain, imperceptible at times,

smoothed out and shadowed in an almost gay resurgence of youth.

If, during the first week or two of her companionship, his gaiety

had been not entirely spontaneous, his smile shadowed with something

duller, his laughter a trifle forced, she had not perceived it in

her surprised and shyly troubled preoccupation with this amazing and

delightful transfiguration.

At first she scarcely knew what to look for, what to expect from

him, from herself, when she came into the studio after many weeks of

absence; and she always halted in the doorway, trembling a little,

as always, when in contact with him.

But he was very delightful, smiling, easy, and deferential enough to

reassure her with a greeting that became him, as he saluted her

pretty hand, held it a moment in possession, laughingly, and

released it.

From the moment of their reunion he had never touched her, save for

a quick, firm, smiling hand-clasp in the morning and another at the

night's parting.

Now, little by little, she was finding herself delightfully at ease

with him, emerging by degrees from her charming bewilderment out of

isolation to a happy companionship never before shared with any man.

Nor even vaguely had she dreamed that Drene could be such a man,

such a friend, never had she imagined there was in him such

kindness, such patience, such gentleness, such comprehension, such

virile sense and sympathy.

And never, now, was her troubled consciousness aware of anything

disquieting in his attitude, of anything to perturb her.

He seemed to enjoy himself like a boy, with her companionship,

wholly, heartily, without any motive other than the pleasure of the

moment; and so, little by little, she gave herself up to it too, in

the same fashion, unguardedly, frankly, innocently revealing herself

to him by degrees as their comradeship became deliciously

unembarrassed.

He was making a full length study in clay now. All day long she sat

there enthroned, her eyes partly closed, the head lifted a trifle

and fallen back, and her lovely hands resting on her heart--and

sometimes she strove to imagine something of the divine moment which

she was embodying; pondering, dreaming, wondering; and sometimes, in

the stillness, through her trance crept a thrill, subtle, exquisite,

as though in faint perception of the heavenly moment. And once, into

her halfdreaming senses came the soft stirring of wings, and she

opened her eyes and looked up, startled and thrilled.