Composition had been determined upon, and the sketch completed by
the middle of August; Cecile had sat for him every day from nine
until five; every evening they had dined together at the seashore or
other suburban and cool resorts. Together they had seen every summer
entertainment in town, had spent the cooler, starlit evenings
together in his studio, chatting, reading loud sometimes, sometimes
discussing he work in hand or other subjects of he moment, even
topics covering a wider and more varied range than he had ever
before discussed with any woman.

He seemed to have become utterly changed; the dark preoccupation had
been absent from his face--the gauntness, the grayness, seemed to
have become subdued; the deep lines of pain, imperceptible at times,
smoothed out and shadowed in an almost gay resurgence of youth.

If, during the first week or two of her companionship, his gaiety
had been not entirely spontaneous, his smile shadowed with something
duller, his laughter a trifle forced, she had not perceived it in
her surprised and shyly troubled preoccupation with this amazing and
delightful transfiguration.

At first she scarcely knew what to look for, what to expect from
him, from herself, when she came into the studio after many weeks of
absence; and she always halted in the doorway, trembling a little,
as always, when in contact with him.

But he was very delightful, smiling, easy, and deferential enough to
reassure her with a greeting that became him, as he saluted her
pretty hand, held it a moment in possession, laughingly, and
released it.