This
Sibyl Andres, gowned in clinging white, was a slender, gracefully tall,
and beautifully developed woman.
Slowly, she came toward the studio end of the garden; pausing here and
there to bend over the flowers as though in loving, tender greeting;
singing, the while, her low-voiced melody; unafraid of the sunshine that
enveloped her in a golden flood, undisturbed by the careless fingers of
the wind that caressed her hair. A girl of the clean out-of-doors, she
belonged among the roses, even as she had been at home among the pines and
oaks of the mountains. The artist, fascinated by the lovely scene, stood
as though fearing to move, lest the vision vanish.
Then, looking up, she saw him, and stretched out her hands in a gesture
of greeting, with a laugh of pleasure.
"Don't move, don't move!" he called impulsively. "Hold the pose--please
hold it! I want you just as you are!"
The girl, amused at his tragic earnestness, and at the manner of his
welcome, understood that the zeal of the artist had brushed aside the
polite formalities of the man; and, as unaffectedly natural as she did
everything, gave herself to his mood.
Dragging his easel with the blank canvas upon it across the studio, he
cried out, again, "Don't move, please don't move!" and began working.
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