VII
THE May morning was warm. Its soft radiance penetrated the studio, even with the north light, and the patch of sky seen through the upper half of the open window was tenderly, opaquely blue, crossed by an occasional small downy cloud. The first touch of summer languor was in the air. The rattle of wheels and whirr of cars in the streets below, and the street cries, seemed oddly softened, as though the world had grown more spacious. Two great masses of lilacs, in brown jars, set on the floor of the studio, sent out their fresh perfume. Basil sang tunelessly as he worked, and his eyes glowed happily. Teresa was posing for a picture, begun some weeks before, but interrupted by her own engagements, or Basil's. Basil had usually a picture of Teresa in some stage of progress. He had painted her a dozen times, and each time the picture had been sold. However, Basil was only "one of the promising younger men." He had often occasion to laugh at such a judgment upon himself. Newspaper praise or blame merely amused him, and he did not even care much whether he sold his pictures or not; "except," as he said, "that one doesn't want too many of them round, mussing up the
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