“If what...?” asked Viola smiling.

“Well, if you don’t mind,” I answered, colouring.

“Mind?  I?  No, dearest Trevor.  Of course not.  You must want a new model by now.  Do engage her by all means.  Is she good altogether?”

“I don’t know.  I have only seen her face yet.  That’s very lovely.  Veronica she calls herself.  I thought, anyway, she would do splendidly for the head.”

“What a piece of good luck she should come now.  You were just wanting a model for your Roman Forum picture,” returned Viola.  And then the matter dropped, for some women came in to tea and broke off the conversation.

At eleven o’clock the next morning I was in my studio, awaiting Veronica.  I was pleased, interested, elated.  The girl was really beautiful, and the sight of beauty exhilarates and animates like wine.

She was very punctual and came confidently into the room as the clock struck.  The cold morning light through a north window fell upon her and instead of the light warming the face as so often happens, her face seemed to warm the light.  She was about sixteen, with a skin of velvet, dark, quite dark, but clear as wine, and with a wonderful red flush glowing through the cheek; the eyes were brilliant, brown to blackness, but full of fire and lustre; her hair, dark as midnight, clustered and fell about her face in soft curls.  The nose was dainty, refined, with perfect nostrils, the mouth deepest red and curved with the most tender, seducing lines.  I had never seen such a face.  The beauty of it was glorious, to an artist awe-inspiring.

I stood gazing at her, delighted, spellbound, and the young person keenly observed my admiration.  She smiled, revealing true Italian teeth, exquisite, white, and perfect.

“I am Veronica Bernandini,” she said.  “I have two hours to spare in the morning and three in the afternoon.”

My first thought was not to let any other artist have her; not till I had painted her at any rate and startled London with her face.

“Are you sitting to any one else?” I asked mechanically.

“No.  I give the rest of my time to my family.  We are very poor.  My mother and father are old.  I am their sole support.”

I waved my hand impatiently.  All models tell you that.  One gets so tired of it.

“What do you want an hour?  I will take all your time.  You must not sit to any one else.”

Her eyes gleamed, and the lovely crimson mouth pouted.

“Five shillings an hour if you take the five hours a day,” she answered.

“I suppose you know that’s double the ordinary price?” I said smiling.  “However, I don’t mind.  I’ll pay you if I find you sit well.  Take off your hat now and sit down—­anywhere.  I want just to make a rough sketch of your head.”

She obeyed, and I drew out some large paper sheets and found a piece of charcoal.  Sitting down opposite her, I gazed at her meditatively.  Now that her hat had been removed I could see the extraordinary wealth and beauty of her hair.  It was black with lights of red and gold fire in it, and fell in its own natural waves and curls and clusters all about her small head and smooth white forehead.