She was conscious of the personal note in their conversation, but she made no effort to avoid it. This genius of less than thirty gave every token of sanity and good fellowship.
"The face is of the East--the Slav--did you choose her for that character?"
"Not at all. She was--er--just--just a sitter--a commission, you know."
They had made the rounds of the room and were now facing the portrait again.
"It was lucky to have so good a model," he continued. "One doesn't always. Have you ever posed, Miss Darrow?"
"I? No, never. Father has been trying to get me painted this winter. But I've been so busy--and then we're going South in two weeks--so we haven't been able to manage it."
"What a pity!" The subtle sparkle had died in his eyes, which from the shadow of their heavy lashes were regarding hers intently.
"You're very kind. Would you really like to paint me?" said Miss Darrow. "Suppose I said you should. I want my portrait done. If you make me half as wonderful as Agatha, I shall die happy. Won't you come in to-morrow at five? We can talk it over. I must be going now. No, not now, to-morrow. Au revoir." She gave him her hand with a friendly nod, and threaded her way through the crowd, leaving Burnett staring at the card she had left in his hand.
On the way up-town in the machine Patricia examined him, smiling curiously.
"What a delusion you are, Ross Burnett! Railing in one moment at matrimony and in the next, tagging around like a tame bear at the heels of the first pretty girl that crosses your path."
"She _is_ pretty, isn't she?" he admitted, promptly.
"And quite the rage--this is her third season you know. You seemed to be getting on very rapidly----"
"Oh, it was all a mistake," Burnett laughed. "She thought I was an artist."
"You!" Patricia leaned forward eagerly. "What do you mean?"
"That I'm brother Philip--the chap that did the Agatha. She mistook me for him, and she was so nice about it that I didn't like to interfere."
"I'm afraid, my dear Ross, that the East has sapped some of your moral fiber," he said.
"It's perfectly delightful," laughed Patricia.
Patricia said no more, but all the way home her face wore a smile which would not come off. The miracle had happened. Had she searched New York she could not have found a girl more eminently suited to Ross Burnett. That night Mortimer had some writing to do, but Patricia and her guest sat for a long while talking earnestly in the library. They didn't take Mortimer into their confidence, for Patricia had now gleefully donned the mantle her husband had so carelessly thrown aside. Here was an opportunity to make, and Patricia became the goddess in the machine.