The sittings were begun out of doors in the tranquil seclusion of the rose garden, Rooke motoring across to Mallow almost daily, and Nan posed in a dozen different attitudes while he made sketches of her both in line and colour, none of which, however, satisfied him in the least.

“My dear Nan,” he exclaimed one day, as he tore up a rough charcoal sketch in disgust, “you’re the worst subject I’ve ever encountered—–­or else my hand has lost its cunning!  I can’t get you—­you—­in the very least!”

“Oh, Maryon”—­breaking her pose to look across at him with a provoking smile—­“can’t you find my soul, after all?”

“I don’t believe you’ve got one.  Anyway, it’s too elusive to pin down on canvas.  Even your face seems out of my reach.  You won’t look as I want you to.  Any other time of the day I see just the expression on your face want to catch—­the expression”—­his voice dropped a shade—­“which means Nan to me.  But the moment you come out here and pose, it’s just a pretty, meaningless mask which isn’t you at all.”

He surveyed her frowningly.

“After all, it is your soul I want!” he said vehemently.

He took a couple of quick strides across the grass to her side.

“Give it me, Nan—­the heart and soul that looks out of your eyes sometimes.  This picture will never be sold.  It’s for me . . . me!  Surely”—­with a little uneven laugh—­“as I’ve lost the substance, you won’t grudge me the shadow?”

A faint colour ran up under her clear skin.

“Oh, I know it was my own fault,” he went on.  “There was a time, Nan, when I had my chance, wasn’t there?”

She hesitated.  Then: 

“Perhaps there was—­once,” she acknowledged slowly.

“And I lost it!  Well, I’ve paid for it every day of my life,” he said shortly.  “And twice a day since your engagement,” he added, with one of those odd touches of whimsicality which were liable to cross even his moments of deep feeling, giving a sense of unreality to them—­a something insincere.

“To get back to the picture—­” suggested Nan.

He laughed.

“We can’t get back—­seeing we’ve never got there at all yet.  These”—­with a gesture to the various sketches littering the lawn—­“are merely preliminary.  When I begin the portrait itself, we’ll retire indoors.  I think the music-room here will answer the purpose of a studio very well.”

“Two whole weeks!” observed Nan meditatively.  “I fancy Roger will be somewhat surprised that progress is so slow.”

“Trenby?  Pooh!  It’s not his picture.  I shall have to explain to him”—­smiling—­“that art is long.”

“He’ll get fidgety about it.  You see, already we’ve stayed at home several times when the others have arranged a picnic expedition.”

“Choosing the better part,” he retorted.  “I should like to make one more attempt this afternoon, if you’re not too tired.  See, your arms . . . so!  And I want your face the least bit tilted.”