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 be shocked at first, but as there was no such evidence he had no further misgivings. A thousand beautiful visions floated voluptuously through the thirsting silence. They flushed him as in the wakening strength of wine. And his body, like the sapless bough of some long-wintered tree, suddenly felt all pulses thrilling.

His hot lips murmured, "Victory is mine. Aye, life is beautiful, and earth is fair."

Then the door opened and the model entered. She did not speak but stood straight and silent, her hands hanging at her side with her palms loosely open—the very abandonment of pathetic helplessness.

The master drew nearer and put out his hands. "Cherokee," he said.

But he was suddenly awed by a firm "Stop there! I have always tried to be pure-minded, high-souled, sinless, but all this did not shield me from insult," she cried, with a look of self-pitying horror.

He drew back, and his temper mounted to white heat, but he managed to preserve his suave composure.

"My dear girl, you misunderstand me; art makes its own plea for pardon. You are not angry, are you?"