I
The soft wind of an Italian spring stirred among the leaves outside. The
windows of the studio, left open to the morning air, were carefully
shaded. The scent of mulberry blossoms drifted in. The chair on the
model-stand, adjusted to catch the light, was screened from the glare;
and the light falling on the rich drapery flung across its back brought
out a dull carmine in the slender, bell-shaped flowers near by, and dark
gleams of old oak in the carved chair. The chair was empty; but the two
men in the studio were facing it, as if a presence were still there.
The painter, sketching idly on the edge of his drawing-board, leaned
back to survey the child's head that developed under his pencil. "She
will not come this morning, then?" he asked almost indifferently.