“And furthermore,” he said, “if Barbara hears of it, she’ll be furious.  She would take the natural and even correct point of view that it’s none of my business, and she would select one of the thousand ruthless and brutal methods which young women have at their disposition for the disciplining of young men.  So, please, will you consider my visit professional and, if you like,” he grinned mischievously, “charge me the regular fee for consultation?”

Dr. Ferris laughed.  “I shall be delighted to play father confessor,” he said, “if you’ll sit down, and smoke a cigar.”

Mr. Allen would.  He lighted one of Dr. Ferris’s cigars with the care due to a thing of value, settled himself in a deep chair, and appeared by slightly pausing to be gathering scattered thoughts into a focus.

“Yes,” he said at last, “there’s no doubt about it.  I am about to be very impertinent.  If you like you shall turn me out of your house, with or without kicks, as seems best to you.  Barbara needs a nurse, and it seems to me you ought to know it; because in a way it’s a reflection on you.”

“Quite so,” said Dr. Ferris.  “I am not at all pleased with Barbara.  What has she done?”

“Do you suppose it would be possible to get her interested in anything besides this sculpture business—­before it’s too late?”

“Too late?”

“Before she gets a taste of success.”

“But will she—­ever?”

Wilmot Allen nodded eagerly.  “She will,” he said.  “She is doing a head.  It’s far from finished; but even now, in the rough state, it’s quite the most exceptional inspired thing you ever saw.  She will exhibit it and become famous overnight.  I can’t bet much—­as you may perhaps suspect—­but I’ll bet all I’ve got.  And of course, once she gets recognition and everybody begins to kow-tow to her—­why, good-by, Barbara.”

“Still,” said Dr. Ferris, “if she’s developing a real talent, I don’t know that I ought to stand in her way.  And, besides, we’ve fought that all out, and,” he laughed grimly, “I took my licking like a man.”

“Of course,” said Allen.  “When a girl that ought to go in for marriage and that sort of thing takes to being talented—­I call it a tragedy.  But, passing that, the model for the head she’s doing isn’t a proper person.  That’s what I’m driving at.  He’s one of the wickedest and most unscrupulous persons in the world.  Barbara ought not to speak to him, let alone give him the run of her studio and hobnob with him same as with one of her friends.  He’s a man too busy with villainy to sit as a model for the fun of sitting.  The pay doesn’t interest him.  And if he shows up every morning at nine and stays all morning, it’s only because he’s got an axe to grind.  He talks.  He lays down the law.  He appeals to Barbara’s mind and imagination; and it’s all rather horrible—­one of those poison snakes that look like an old rubber boot, and a bird all prettiness, bright colors, innocence,