"Drop in on me at the office some time," he suggested to the

youthful model, in a gracious tone born of absolute

self-satisfaction.

"For luncheon or dinner?" retorted the girl, with smiling audacity.

"You may stay to breakfast also--"

"Oh, come on," drawled Guilder, taking his colleague's elbow.

The sculptor yawned as Quair went out: then he closed the door then

celebrated firm of architects, and wandered back rather aimlessly.

For a while he stood by the great window, watching the pigeons on

neighboring roof. Presently he returned to his table, withdrew the

dancing figure with its graceful, wide flung arms, set it upon the

squeaky revolving table once more, and studied it, yawning at

intervals.

The girl got up from the sofa behind him, went to the model-stand,

and mounted it. For a few moments she was busy adjusting her feet to

the chalk marks and blocks. Finally she took the pose. She always

seemed inclined to be more or less vocal while Drene worked; her

voice, if untrained, was untroubled. Her singing had never bothered

Drene, nor, until the last few days, had he even particularly

noticed her blithe trilling--as a man a field, preoccupied, is

scarcely aware of the wild birds' gay irrelevancy along the way.

He happened to notice it now, and a thought passed through his mind

that the country must be very lovely in the mild spring sunshine.

As he worked, the brief visualization of young grass and the faint

blue of skies, evoked, perhaps, by the girl's careless singing, made

for his dull concentration subtly pleasant environment.

"May I rest?" she asked at length.

"Certainly, if it's necessary."

"I've brought my lunch. It's twelve," she explained.

He glanced at her absently, rolling a morsel of wax; then, with

slight irritation which ended in a shrug, he motioned her to

descend.

After all, girls, like birds, were eternally eating. Except for

that, and incessant preening, existence meant nothing more important

to either species.

He had been busy for a few moments with the group when she said

something to him, and he looked around from his abstraction. She was

holding out toward him a chicken sandwich.

When his mind came back from wool gathering, he curtly declined the

offer, and, as an afterthought, bestowed upon her a wholly

mechanical smile, in recognition of a generosity not welcome.

"Why don't you ever eat luncheon?" she asked.

"Why should I?" he replied, preoccupied.

"It's bad for you not to. Besides, you are growing thin."

"Is that your final conclusion concerning me, Cecile?" he asked,

absently.




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