however. You are going to see Annabel immortalized in allegory on the walls of the City Hall. They delight in posing. The little brother makes a famous cherub."
The young impressionist worked rapidly. Anne almost held her breath as she watched his sweeping strokes. His touch was firm, despite his eagerness. The drawing had been finished; the colour was being sketched in. Grass and trees were violet. That was necessary to give the true values. The sky was pale green. Art's lovely hair, its auburn shades brightened to red,—for that was what it meant to him, the artist said,—fell over the side of the couch and curled round one of the branches of the hedge of thorn. The light effects were mystic, wonderful.
The two artists ceased to quarrel over beauty, line, and colour. They were absorbed in considering the intellectual values of their work.
"So this is the way," said Anne one afternoon, deserting her own easel, "in
