He painted furiously, blocking in the limp little figure with swift, sure strokes of his brush.
When at last he desisted he flung a question at her.
"Who taught you to pose--and to dance like that, you wonder-child ?" Magda surveyed him with that mixture of saint and devil in her long, suddenly narrow eyes which, when she grew to womanhood, was the measure of her charm and the curse of her tempestuous life.
"_Le bon dieu_," she responded demurely.
The man smiled and shook his head.

It was a crooked little smile, oddly humorous and attractive.
"No," he said with conviction.

"No.

I don't think so." The daylight was beginning to fade, and he started to pack up his belongings.
"What's your name ?" asked Magda suddenly.
"Michael." She looked at him with sudden awe.
"Not--not _Saint Michel_ ?" she asked breathlessly.
Virginie had told her all about "_Saint Michel_." He was a very great angel indeed.

It would be tremendously exciting to find she had been talking to him all this time without knowing it! And the grey-eyed man had fair hair; it shone in the glinting sunset-light _almost_ like a halo! He quenched her hopes with that brief, one-sided smile of his.
"No," he said.