She remained silent, watching him curiously.

He said:  “But the final clincher to your qualifications is that you are intelligent.  I have known pretty women,” he added with, sarcasm, “who were not what learned men would call precisely intelligent.  But you are.  I showed you my sketch, indicated in a general way what I wanted, and instinctively and intelligently you assumed the proper attitude.  I didn’t have to take you by the chin and twist your head as though you were a lay figure; I didn’t have to pull you about and flex and bend and twist you.  You knew that I wanted you to look like some sort of an ethereal immortality, deliciously relaxed, adrift in sunset clouds.  And you were it—­somehow or other.”

She looked down, thoughtfully, nestling to the chin in the white wool folds.  A smile, almost imperceptible, curved her lips.

“You are making it very easy for me,” she said.

“You make it easy for yourself.”

“I was horribly afraid,” she said thoughtfully.

“I have no doubt of it.”

“Oh, you don’t know—­nobody can know—­no man can understand the terror of—­of the first time—­”

“It must be a ghastly experience.”

“It is!—­I don’t mean that you have not done everything to make it easier—­but—­there in the little room—­my courage left me—­I almost died.  I’d have run away only—­I was afraid you wouldn’t let me—­”

He began to laugh; she tried to, but the terror of it all was as yet too recent.

“At first,” she said, “I was afraid I wouldn’t do for a model—­not exactly afraid of my—­my appearance, but because I was a novice; and I imagined that one had to know exactly how to pose—­”

“I think,” he interrupted smilingly, “that you might take the pose again if you are rested.  Go on talking; I don’t mind it.”

She sat erect, loosened the white wool robe and dropped it from her with less consciousness and effort than before.  Very carefully she set her feet on the blocks, fitting the shapely heels to the chalked outlines; found the mark for her elbow, adjusted her slim, smooth body and looked at him, flushing.

“All right,” he said briefly; “go ahead and talk to me.”

“Do you wish me to?”

“Yes; I’d rather.”

“I don’t know exactly what to say.”

“Say anything,” he returned absently, selecting a flat brush with a very long handle.

She thought a moment, then, lifting her eyes: 

“I might ask you your name.”

“What?  Don’t you know it?  Oh, Lord!  Oh, Vanity!  I thought you’d heard of me.”

She blushed, confused by her ignorance and what she feared was annoyance on his part; then perceived that he was merely amused; and her face cleared.

“We folk who create concrete amusement for the public always imagine ourselves much better known to that public than we are, Miss West.  It’s our little vanity—­rather harmless after all.  We’re a pretty decent lot, sometimes absurd, especially in our tragic moments; sometimes emotional, usually illogical, often impulsive, frequently tender-hearted as well as supersensitive.