between the wily suitor and the light-heeled girl. The figure of the latter was now complete, and there only remained that of Milanion to finish. Robert Feuardent had posed for this figure, and Margaret was loath to finish it from any less perfect model than the handsome Creole. She had not seen him since the great ball, when he appeared early one morning at her studio door. He had brought her an orange-branch, and came and stood silently leaning against the door-post, waiting till she should see him.
He wore the dress in which he posed for her,—a loose blue flannel shirt rolled away from the neck, close-fitting nether garments, and buskins. He must have come at a swift pace, for his breath was short and his face and eyes were glowing with exercise. Over his shoulder he carried the branch of oranges. He stood in a flood of sunshine, which was colder than the light in his deep golden-brown eyes, and he laughed with the glad, free laughter of a savage child when Margaret turned and saw him, and started at the sight. He had never seemed to her so handsome or so winning as now, when he broke through the quiet gray of her work-a-day life as a sunbeam breaks through a dark cloud. A bowl of milk was standing near her; and taking it silently, she placed it in his hands and stood looking up at him while he
