"Is the picture finished?"
"Finished," returned the novelist. "I just left him mooning over it like a
mother over a brand-new baby."
They laughed together, and when, a moment later, the girl slipped into the
house and did not return, the woman with the disfigured face and the
famous novelist looked at each other with smiling eyes. When Czar, with
sudden interest, started around the corner of the house, his master said
suggestively, "Czar, you better stay here with the old folks."
Passing through the house, and out of the kitchen door, Sibyl ran,
lightly, through the orange grove, to the little gate in the corner of the
Ragged Robin hedge. A moment she paused, hesitating, then, stealing
cautiously into the rose garden, she darted in quick flight to the shelter
of the arbor; where she parted the screen of vines to gain a view of the
studio.
Between the big, north window and the window that opened into the garden,
she saw the artist. She saw, too, the big canvas upon the easel. But Aaron
King was not, now, looking at his work just finished. He was sitting
before that other picture into which he had unconsciously painted, not
only the truth that he saw in the winsome loveliness of the girl who posed
for him with outstretshed hands among the roses, but his love for her as
well.
Pages:
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516