Mechanically she settled her little naked feet deep into the big bath-slippers, tucked up her white wool sleeves to the dimpled elbow, and surveyed the soup which he had placed before her to serve.

“I know perfectly well that this isn’t right,” she said, helping him and then herself.  “But I am wondering what there is about it that isn’t right.”

“Isn’t it demoralising!” he said, amused.

“I—­wonder if it is?”

He laughed:  “Such ideas are nonsense, Miss West.  Listen to me:  you and I—­everybody except those with whom something is physically wrong—­are born with a full and healthy capacity for demoralisation and mischief.  Mischief is only one form of energy.  If lightning flies about unguided it’s likely to do somebody some damage; if it’s conducted properly to a safe terminal there’s no damage done and probably a little good.”

“Your brushes are your lightning-rods?” she suggested, laughing.

“Certainly.  I only demoralise canvas.  What outlet have you for your perfectly normal deviltry?”

“I haven’t any.”

[Illustration:  “‘I know perfectly well that this isn’t right,’ she said.”]

“Any deviltry?”

“Any outlet.”

“You ought to have.”

“Ought I?”

“Certainly.  You are as full of restless energy as I am.”

“Oh, I don’t think I am.”

“You are.  Look at yourself!  I never saw anybody so sound, so superbly healthy, so”—­he laughed—­“adapted to dynamics.  You’ve got to have an outlet.  Or there’ll be the deuce to pay.”

She looked at her fruit salad gravely, tasted it, and glanced up at him: 

“I have never in all my life had any outlet—­never even any outlook, Mr. Neville.”

“You should have had both,” he grumbled, annoyed at himself for the interest her words had for him; uneasy, now that she had responded, yet curious to learn something about this fair young girl, approximately his intellectual equal, who came to his door looking for work as a model.  He thought to himself that probably it was some distressing tale which he couldn’t help, and the recital of which would do neither of them any good.  Of stories of models’ lives he was tired, satiated.  There was no use encouraging her to family revelations; an easy, pleasant footing was far more amusing to maintain.  The other hinted of intimacy; and that he had never tolerated in his employees.

Yet, looking now across the table at her, a not unkind curiosity began to prod him.  He could easily have left matters where they were, maintained the status quo indefinitely—­or as long as he needed her services.

“Outlets are necessary,” he said, cautiously.  “Otherwise we go to the bow-wows.”

“Or—­die.”

“What?” sharply.

She looked up without a trace of self-consciousness or the least hint of the dramatic: 

“I would die unless I had an outlet.  This is almost one.  At least it gives me something to do with my life.”