what cynically, "might account for a good deal. The bow that is too tightly strung is always the one to rebound most fiercely."
"She was a character in her way," said Norman Druce, musingly. "Wild, wayward, impetuous, passionate; as lovely as a dream, as wilful as—well, as a woman; mischievous, coquettish; yet withal so generous and tender-hearted! Poor Cigarette!"
"She looks very young here," said Denis.
"She was only sixteen." He glanced at the sketch. "Just such a scene," he said, "only supplement it by some half-dozen young fellows in their workshop. I—I was one of them. We were young then, and poor, and sharing a joint studio in a quiet little country place in Devon, studying landscape-painting. I had been the last to join them. Two were personal friends; the others I only knew by name. I arrived one summer evening; and, leaving my traps at the inn, walked over to the studio, as arranged. It was a long, wooden building, lighted by two large windows, and had been built on to a little, rustic cottage, originally tenanted by an artist. I knocked at the door, but the noise of voices and laughter within made my diffident announcement inaudible. I therefore opened the door, and stood for a moment unobserved, looking on at the scene presented. I never look at this sketch but it all comes back. A crash of chords, a medley of sounds, the ringing, audacious notes of a voice clear and sweet as a nightingale's, a puff of smoke blown saucily from rosy lips, the mutinous flash of brown eyes, a figure shabbily and poorly clad, yet perfect in its youth and grace, and careless ease of movement—that was Cigarette, as I first saw her."
"It sounds delightful," said Denis O'Hara. "Was she a model?"
"A model! I told you she was a clergyman's daughter," said Norman Druce indignantly.
"And sang buffo songs; smoked cigarettes in the company of a lot of young fellows, puffing smoke from rosy lips into their faces—well, you must allow it sounds a little—incompatible."
"Oh," said Norman Druce laughing, "she did many worse things than that. All the same we adored her. She was the veriest incarnation of coquetry and mischief that ever wore the garb of woman—a sprite, a will-o'-the wisp, a something untamable and untrained, and most certainly the plague of my life and of many of the others for those six months during which we rented the studio. She had always been allowed to run wild. She had no mother, or brothers, or sisters. Her father bore a not very excellent character, and seemed to let her do just what she pleased. That, apparently, consisted in haunting the studio, coquetting with the artists, and spoiling canvas, and wasting colour in an attempt to produce what she termed 'novel effects'—they were novel, by Jove!—playing all sorts of practical jokes on us, and amusing, interesting, tormenting each and all of us just as the fancy took her. She was like a wild young colt. She respected nothing and no one. She would parody songs till we had to hold our sides for laughing, mimic her father and his sermons; dance, play, sing; in fact, her talents were as versatile as herself. One of our number, Val Beresford, alone seemed to dislike the girl. He was a wonderfully clever artist, out and out the best among us, excessively handsome, very ambitious, and very fastidious. He made no secret that he disliked Cigarette, though he laughed and teased her like the rest of us, as if she were some pet kitten, with claws as yet half sheathed and harmless. But Cigarette seemed to guess his dislike, and I noticed that in his presence she was always wilder, bolder, more fantastic and petulant than we ever knew her. If he admired a song, it was the signal for some audacious parody that turned it into ridicule; if he praised art, she abused it; if he spoke of the refinement and delicacy of womanhood, she would tear its idealised graces into shreds and tatters, and paint them with a scathing and bitter contempt that quite startled us. On no subject could they or would they agree; strangely enough, too, she would sit for any of us with most untiring patience, but nothing would ever induce her to do so for Val. One day he told her laughingly that, with or without her will, he intended to make a picture of her, and send it to the French Exhibition. 'You are too vivid and dangerous for English tastes,' he said teasingly. He did not notice, as he spoke, how white that lovely rich-hued face of hers became; how swift and fierce a flash shot from the dark brown eyes; so sudden, so tempestuous was the change that I felt almost frightened, though I knew her temper, and how variable were her moods. But, sudden as was that change, it was checked as suddenly. For once Cigarette did not
