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“You think I’m asking heavy pay for my hospitality?”

“No—no, indeed,” protested she earnestly. “I can’t tell you what I was thinking.”

The more he considered the idea the apparition of her in that graceful posture in the canoe had suggested the more it seemed an inspiration. He was regarding her now with the artist’s eye only. She leaned on her paddle, lost in reverie; the look of the self-satisfied, over-petted American girl faded from her face; the sunbeams flung a golden glamour over her yellow hair and her delicate skin. He saw alluring possibilities of idealizing her face into the center and climax of the dreamy romance he was going to try to make of his first American picture. His original impulse to get rid of her as a useless, perhaps disquieting intruder had gone altogether. He was resolved to have this providential model. “I don’t want to be disagreeable,” said he, “but I really need you. It’d be a—a service to”—he smiled—“to art.”

She seemed not to hear. Presently she compressed her lips, looked at him defiantly—a strange look that somehow disquieted him for an instant. “Where do you want me to put myself?” she asked, stepping into the canoe.