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.