"
Possibly, if the thing became too pensive and soulful altogether,
he might give it some title suggestive of the absent lover at the
bull-fight--"The Toreador's Bride"--or something of that sort. The
only point on which he was solid was that it was to strike the Spanish
note; and to this end he gave Ruth a costume of black and orange and
posed her on the model-throne with a rose in her hair.
Privately he had decided that ten minutes would be Ruth's limit. He
knew something of the strain of sitting to an artist.
"Tired?" he asked at the end of this period.
Ruth shook her head and smiled.
"You must be. Come and sit down and take a rest."
"I'm quite all right, dear. Go on with your work."
"Well, shout out the moment you feel you've had enough."
He began to paint again. The minutes went by and Ruth made no movement.
He began to grow absorbed in his work. He lost count of time. Ruth
ceased to be Ruth, ceased even to be flesh and blood. She was just
something he was painting.
"Kirk!"
The sharp suddenness of the cry brought him to his feet, quivering.
Ruth was swaying on the model-throne. Her eyes were staring straight
before her and her face was twisted with fear.
As he sprang forward she fell, pitching stiffly head foremost, as he
had seen men fall in the ring, her arms hanging at her sides; and he
caught her.
Pages:
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114