“I don’t mean that in any critical or reproachful sense, Gladys.  Don’t you dare think I do—­not for one moment!  Do you hear me?  Well then!  If you are stupid enough to misunderstand me I’ll put a perfectly horrid pair of ears on you!...  I’ve made a very dainty pair of ears for you, dear; I only said that to frighten you.  You and I like that man up there—­tremendously, don’t we?  And we’re very grateful to him for—­for a great many happy moments—­and for his unfailing kindness and consideration....  You don’t mind posing for me; you wear fur.  But I didn’t wear anything, dear, when I first sat to him as a novice; and, kitty, I was a fortunate girl in my choice of the man before whom I was to make a debut.  And I—­”

The rattle of brushes and the creak of the scaffolding arrested her:  Neville was coming down for a view of his work.

“Hello,” he said, pleasantly, noticing for the first time that she was still in the studio.

“Have I disturbed you, Mr. Neville?”

“Not a bit.  You never do any more than does Gladys.”  He glanced absently at the cat, then, facing his canvas, backed away from it, palette in hand.

For ten minutes he examined his work, shifting his position from minute to minute, until the change of positions brought him backed up beside Valerie, and his thigh brushing her arm made him aware of her.  Glancing down with smiling apology his eye fell on the wax, and was arrested.  Then he bent over the work she had done, examining it, twirled the top of the stool, and inspected it carefully from every side.

“Have you ever studied modelling, Miss West?”

“No,” she said, blushing, “you must know that I haven’t.”  And looked up expecting to see laughter in his eyes; and saw only the curiosity of interest.

“How did you know how to start this?”

“I have often watched you.”

“Is that all the instruction you’ve ever had in modelling?”

She could not quite bring herself to believe in his pleasant seriousness: 

“Y-yes,” she admitted, “except when I have watched John Burleson.  But—­this is simply rotten—­childish—­isn’t it?”

“No,” he said in a matter of fact tone, “it’s interesting.”

“Do you really think—­mean—­”

He looked down at her, considering her while the smile that she knew and liked best and thought best suited to his face, began to glimmer; that amused, boyish, bantering smile hinting of experience and wisdom delightfully beyond her.

“I really think that you’re a very unusual girl,” he said.  “I don’t want to spoil you by telling you so every minute.”

“You don’t spoil me by telling me so.  Sometimes I think you may spoil me by not telling me so.”

“Miss West!  You’re spoiled already!  I’m throwing bouquets at you every minute!  You’re about the only girl who ever sat for me with whom I talk unreservedly and incessantly.”