“I don’t mean that.  I mean that one must not hesitate to sacrifice one’s self when the happiness or welfare of the other is in the balance.”

“Yes.  Of course!...  Suppose you love a man.”

“Yes,” said Valerie, smiling, “I can imagine that.”

“Listen, dear.  Suppose you love a man.  And you think that perhaps he is beginning—­just beginning to care a little for you.  And suppose—­suppose that you are—­have been—­long ago—­once, very long ago—­”

“What?”

“Unwise,” said Rita, in a low voice.

“Unwise?  How?”

“In the—­unwisest way that a girl can be.”

“You mean any less unwise than a man might be—­probably the very man she is in love with?”

“You know well enough what is thought about a girl’s unwisdom and the same unwisdom in a man.”

“I know what is thought; but I don’t think it.”

“Perhaps you don’t.  But the world’s opinion is different.”

“Yes, I know it....  What is your question again?  You say to me, here’s a man beginning to care for a girl who has been unwise enough before she knew him to let herself believe she cared enough for another man to become his mistress.  Is that it, Rita?”

“Y-yes.”

“Very well.  What do you wish to ask me?”

“I wish to ask you what that girl should do.”

“Do?  Nothing.  What is there for her to do?”

“Ought she to let that man care for her?”

“Has he ever made the same mistake she has?”

“I—­don’t think so.”

“Are you sure?”

“Almost.”

“Well, then, I’d tell him.”

Rita lay silent, gazing into space, her blond hair clustering around the pretty oval of her face.

Valerie waited for a few moments, then resumed her reading, glancing inquiringly at intervals over the top of her book at Rita, who seemed disinclined for further conversation.

After a long silence she sat up abruptly on the sofa and looked at Valerie.

“You asked me who was the first man for whom I posed.  I’ll tell you if you wish to know.  It was Penrhyn Cardemon!...  And I was eighteen years old.”

Valerie dropped her book in astonishment.

“Penrhyn Cardemon!” she repeated.  “Why, he isn’t an artist!”

“He has a studio.”

“Where?”

“On Fifth Avenue.”

“What does he do there?”

“Deviltry.”

Valerie’s face was blank; Rita sat sullenly cradling one knee in her arms, looking at the floor, her soft, gold hair hanging over her face and forehead so that it shadowed her face.

“I’ve meant to tell you for a long time,” she went on; “I would have told you if Cardemon had ever sent for you to—­to pose—­in his place.”

“He asked me to go on The Mohave.”

“I’d have warned you if Louis Neville had not objected.”

“Do you suppose Louis knew?”