She remained silent, motionless, awaiting his pleasure.

He set his palette, frowning.

She had never before seen him like this.
After a while she said, quietly: "If you are waiting for me, please tell me what you expect me to do, because I don't know, Kelly." "Oh, just stand over there," he said, vaguely; "just walk about and stop anywhere when you feel like stopping." She walked a few steps at hazard, partly turned to look back at him with a movement adorable in its hesitation.
"Don't budge!" he said, brusquely.
"Am I to remain like this ?" "Exactly." He picked up a bit of white chalk, went over to her, knelt down, and traced on the floor the outline of her shoes.
Then he went back, and, with his superbly cool assurance, began to draw with his brush upon the untouched canvas.
From where she stood, and as far as she could determine, he seemed, however, to work less rapidly than usual--with a trifle less decision--less precision.

Another thing she noticed; the calm had vanished from his face.

The vivid animation, the cool self-confidence, the half indolent relapse into careless certainty--all familiar phases of the man as she had so often seen him painting--were now not perceptible.