A small girl was coming to sit for him at ten o'clock. Her name was Marjorie Arnold. She was possessed of personality and a fascinating dimple. He had caught the personality, but the dimple had hitherto eluded him. It was extremely fleeting in its appearance. He hoped to catch it and place it on canvas that morning.
There was only one other entry for the day--"4.15. C.C." It meant that Christopher Charlton was coming for him that afternoon, and would take him to call on the Duchessa di Corleone, who desired to have her portrait painted.
He felt a certain amount of interest as to the Duchessa's appearance, but it was only an interest he had felt dozens of times before concerning possible commissions. Christopher had said she was good-looking. So were a good many people who were no use to Paul as subjects. He painted only those who interested him. From the others--and there were many--he politely evaded accepting commissions. He was very much an artist, was Paul. And for this reason partly his income was considerably below the amount his genius warranted. The other reason was that there were many people who did not consider his portraits to be likenesses.
At ten o'clock the child appeared with the nurse, who was dismissed for a couple of hours, and armed with brushes and palette Paul set to work to catch the fleeting dimple.
The child--she was five years old--was in a solemn mood. Smiles, and with them the dimple, had temporarily vanished. She was a quaint little thing with red hair and freckles, and a fascinating ugliness generally termed the _beauté de diable_.
Paul told her half a dozen stories, including "The Three Bears", "The Frog Prince", and Rudyard Kipling's "Stute Little Fish." But neither the squeakiness of the little bear, the faithlessness of the princess, nor the sufferings of the whale when the shipwrecked mariner danced hornpipes in his inside had any effect on the dimple.
"Suppose," said Paul at last, "that you tell me a story."
There was the ghost of a smile, then solemnity. The flash of hope Paul had experienced died away.
"Onst upon a time," she began gravely, "vere was a little dog _an'_ a little duck. An' vey grewed wings, an' vey flewed up an' up an' up to heaven to God."