"In the big canvases for the Byzantine Theatre you always made my features too radiant, too glorious for portraits.

It seems rather a slump to paint me as I am--just a girl in street clothes." A singular expression passed over his face.
"Yes," he said, after a moment--"just a girl in street clothes.

No clouds, no sky, no diaphanous draperies of silk; no folds of cloth of gold; no gemmed girdles, no jewels.

Nothing of the old glamour, the old glory; no sunburst laced with mist; no 'light that never was on sea or land.' ...

Just a young girl standing in the half light of my studio....
And by God!--if I can not do it--the rest is worthless." Amazed at his tone and expression she turned quickly, set back her cup, remained gazing at him, bewildered by the first note of bitterness she had ever heard in his voice.
He had risen and walked to his easel, back partly turned.