started as though she had struck him asecond time.
"Don't," he entreated again. And then without waiting for more he tookhis hat and slipped quietly out of the studio. Jill scarcely noticedhis departure, did not even speculate as to his object in thusunceremoniously leaving, nor wonder whether he was likely to return ornot. She was rather relieved at finding herself alone, and able to givevent to the emotion she could no longer repress. Sitting down at thetable in the seat which St. John had so suddenly vacated she laid herhead upon his drawing-board and wept all over the paper. The outburst,which was purely neurotic,--such outbursts usually are--had beengathering for days past, and had culminated with the fall of Clytie--thebreaking of the bust which her father had so loved. Alas! for thesweet, sad, absurd associations which cling about the things that thedead have touched.
St. John was not away very long; he had been to a shop that he knew ofquite handy, and had driven there and back thanks to the stupid cabsthat Miss Bolton found so inconvenient. He had bought another bust ofClytie, an altogether superior article in Parian marble which he carriedback to the studio in triumph quite expecting to see Jill's grief vanishat sight of it, and tears give place to smiles. He found her stillseated at the table; she was not crying any longer; but the traces ofrecent emotion were sufficiently apparent for him to detect at a glance.The sight sobered him instantly, and he approached with less confidencein the efficiency of his purchase than had possessed him when out of herpresence.
"It's all right," he exclaimed, speaking as cheerfully as he could, andplacing the new Clytie on the table among the ruins of her predecessor,"I managed to get another. I hope you'll like it as well as the one Ibroke. It was confoundedly clumsy of me. But you aren't angry with mestill?"
"No," answered Jill, raising her head to view the Clytie as he drew offthe paper wrapping for her to see. "Oh!" she cried, "it is far toogood; mine was only plaster."
"Was it?" he said slowly. "And yet, I fancy, you preferred itinfinitely to this one."
Jill's lips quivered ominously again, and half unconsciously as it wereshe fingered one of the broken pieces in lingering regret.
"It had associations," she said simply.
He stooped forward so that he could see her face, and his hand soughthers where it rested upon the table, and with a kindly pressureimprisoned it while he spoke.
"Can't you form associations round this one too?" he asked.
For a moment there was silence. Then she looked back at him and smiledfaintly.
"I have commenced doing so already," she answered, and, quietlywithdrawing her hand, rose and stood back a little the better to admirehis purchase.
"It was dreadfully extravagant of you to buy a thing like that just foran art school model," she exclaimed. "It ought to be in somedrawing-room instead of here."
"It looks very well where it is," he answered coolly. "But I think I'llgive over trying to draw it for a time; I can't catch that sadlycontemplative, sweetly scornful expression at all; I make a sneer of itwhich is diabolical. Don't insist, please; because it makes me nervousjust to look at her."
That was the beginning of things--at any rate the perceptiblecommencement; though it might have begun with the flowers as Isobel hadinsinuated. Never a word did St. John utter that Jill could possiblyhave turned or twisted into a betrayal of the growing regard which shefelt in her heart he entertained for her, and never a sign did Jill makethat she understood, or in any way reciprocated his unspoken liking.She knew that he loved her by instinct, and the knowledge made her glad,so that her life was no longer lonely, nor the occasional privations,the incessant work, the petty, carking, almost daily worries so hard tobear. Life was one long pleasant day-dream; though sometimes MissBolton "biked" through the dreaming, and then it became a night-mare,and Jill was consumed with a fierce burning jealousy that lasted until anew-born, audacious, delicious conceit--her woman's intuition--assuredher that poor and insignificant though she was St. John was far morefond of her than he would ever be of his pretty, elegant, and wealthycousin.
CHAPTER SIX.
St. John had attended Miss Erskine's studio for two quarters, and wasnow into the third. He was still her sole pupil; though she had hadanother student, a long-legged girl of fifteen who had attended forthree weeks and then been taken away in a hurry because her mother haddiscovered that Miss Erskine was very young, and had, besides herdaughter, only one other pupil--_a man_--and no chaperone. She wroteMiss Erskine very plainly on the subject of the impropriety of herconduct, and gave her a good deal of advice, but omitted to enclose thefee. Jill showed the letter to St. John as the best way of explaininghis fellow-student's absence, and St. John laughed over it immoderately;he was so glad that the long-legged girl was gone.
"It's rather rough on you though," he remarked as he returned themissive which Jill put into her pocket to keep for a curiosity. "If youget another pupil of that description you'll have to get rid of me,that's certain. Poor little snub-nosed Flossie! I hope we didn'tdemoralise her altogether. How I do detest the respectable Britishmatron, don't you?"
"No," answered Jill. "I detest the vulgar, narrow-minded order though,like the writer of this letter. That poor child! I used to think her agiggling little idiot. She did giggle, and she wasn't very wise; butshe is greatly to be commiserated all the same."
Jill had no fresh pupils after that, only St. John trudged manfully upthe steep, narrow stairs with unfailing regularity, and once, when shewas ill and obliged to stay in bed with a bad cold on her chest, he senther fruit and flowers, but carefully refrained from going near thestudio himself until he received a little note from her thanking him andsaying that she was well enough to resume work.
Independent of the fee he paid for tuition, and the pleasure she derivedfrom his society Jill enjoyed many advantages through his being at thestudio which she could not herself have afforded. For one thing when hestarted painting he insisted upon employing a model; he wanted to paintfrom life; and Jill had to pose the model and paint from him or her--asthe case might be--at the same time. She made good use of heropportunities, and many of the canvasses sold, but she had to dispose ofthem far below their market value at a merely nominal profit which justpaid her and that was all. St. John offered her a hundred and fiftypounds for one picture--a female figure against a background of sea andsky, the whole veiled in a kind of white mist--a vapoury shroud whichsoftened yet did not conceal. Jill had christened this picture "ThePride of the Morning," and for some reason, perhaps because St. John sogreatly admired it, she felt loth to let it go for the ridiculous pricewhich she had accepted for the other canvasses; yet when St. John wishedto purchase it she refused. She would not sell it to him though sheoffered it as a gift, but he would not take it, and so "The Pride of theMorning" was stood in a corner of the studio facing the wall just asthough it was in disgrace.
Just about this time Jill had a regular run of ill luck. In the firstinstance the man who always bought her canvasses became bankrupt and wassold up, and Jill, who didn't know anything about sending in claims, andhad no one to advise her; for she never consulted St. John on purelypersonal matters for fear of his finding out how very poor she reallywas, lost the price of three canvasses which he had taken of her andnever paid for, besides having nowhere now to dispose of her work. Hehad paid her poorly but it had been a certain market, and although shetramped London over, as it seemed to her weary feet, she could find noone to give her an order, or even a promise of work in the future; shehad plenty of time for dreaming now. Besides this, the rent of herrooms was due again, and it was absolutely expedient that she shouldhave new boots. And then came the climax--at least it seemed the climaxto Jill's overwrought and tired brain, but it was not so; as a matter offact that fell later when she had not conceived it possible that greatertrouble could fall to human lot. She became ill again--off her head, asIsobel informed St. John when she received him one Tuesday with theintimation that he could not go up as usual. The heat of summer,together with
the continual atmosphere of white lead and turpentine hadbeen too much for Jill, and she had collapsed, and, becoming ramblingand incoherent in her talk the landlady had taken things into her ownhands and sent for the doctor, when it was only rest and a littlenursing and relief from mental worry that the invalid stood in need of,and not physic, a doctor's bill, and impossible advice. The doctorcame. She was thoroughly run down, he said; and he ordered her thingsthat she could not buy, and change of air which she could not affordeither, though she told him that she would see about it for fear heshould think that she was hoping he would not charge her for attendance,which was very foolish and proud, just as foolish as her refusal to sellSt. John the picture.
When she was