"If I remember, she was 'the
loveliest creature you had ever seen.' And after that there were
others--a score of them at least, each lovelier than the one
before."
"They make up my life," said Gregson, more seriously than he had
yet spoken. "They're the only thing I can draw and do well. I'd
think an editor was mad if he asked me to do something without a
pretty woman in it. God bless 'em, I hope I'll go on seeing them
forever. When I can't see beauty in woman I want to die."
"And you always want to see it in the superlative degree."
"I insist upon it. If she lacks something, as Donna Isobel wanted
color, I imagine that it is there, and she is perfect! But this
one that I saw to-night is perfect! Now what I want to know is
this, Who the deuce is she!"
--"where can she be found, and will she sit for a 'Burke,' two or
three miscellaneous, and a 'study' for the annual sale," struck in
Whittemore. "Is that it?"
"Exactly. You've a natural ability for hitting the nail on the
head, Phil."
"And Burke told you to take a rest."
Gregson offered his cigarettes.
"Yes, Burke is a good-natured, poetic old soul who has a horror of
spiders, snakes, and sky-scrapers. He said to me: 'Greggy, go and
seek nature in some quiet, secluded place, and forget everything
for a fortnight or two except your clothes and half a dozen cases
of beer.
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