She laid her hand lightly on his arm in sudden and impulsive confidence: 

“That’s my ‘thorough talk.’  I haven’t any one else to tell it to.  And I’ve told you the worst.”  She smiled at him adorably:  “And now I am ready to go out with you,” she said,—­“go anywhere in the world with you, Kelly.  And I am going to be perfectly happy—­if you are.”

CHAPTER III

One day toward the middle of June Valerie did not arrive on time at the studio.  She had never before been late.

About two o’clock Sam Ogilvy sauntered in, a skull pipe in his mouth, his hair rumpled: 

“It’s that damn mermaid of mine,” he said, “can’t you come up and look at her and tell me what’s the trouble, Kelly?”

“Not now.  Who’s posing?”

“Rita.  She’s in a volatile humour, too—­fidgets; denies fidgeting; reproaches me for making her keep quiet; says I draw like a bum chimney—­no wonder my work’s rotten!  Besides, she’s in a tub of water, wearing that suit of fish-scales I had made for Violet Cliland, and she says it’s too tight and she’s tired of the job, anyway.  Fancy my mental condition.”

“Oh, she won’t throw you down.  Rita is a good sport,” said Neville.

“I hope so.  It’s an important picture.  Really, Kelly, it’s great stuff—­a still, turquoise-tinted pool among wet rocks; ebb tide; a corking little mermaid caught in a pool left by the receding waves—­all tones and subtle values,” he declared, waving his arm.

“Don’t paint things in the air with your thumb,” said Neville, coldly.  “No wonder Rita is nervous.”

“Rita is nervous,” said Ogilvy, “because she’s been on a bat and supped somewhere until the coy and rosy dawn chased her homeward.  And your pretty paragon, Miss West, was with the party—­”

“What?” said Neville, sharply.

“Sure thing!  Harry Annan, Rita, Burleson, Valerie—­and I don’t know who else.  They feasted somewhere east of Coney—­where the best is like the wuerst—­and ultimately became full of green corn, clams, watermelon, and assorted fidgets....  Can’t you come up and look at my picture?”

Neville got up, frowning, and followed Ogilvy upstairs.

Rita Tevis, swathed in a blanket from which protruded a dripping tinselled fish’s tail, sat disconsolately on a chair, knitting a red-silk necktie for some party of the second part, as yet unidentified.

“Mr. Neville,” she said, “Sam has been quarrelling with me every minute while I’m doing my best in that horrid tub of water.  If anybody thinks it’s a comfortable pose, let them try it!  I wish—­I wish I could have the happiness of seeing Sam afloat in this old fish-scale suit with every spangle sticking into him and his legs cramped into this unspeakable tail!”

She extended a bare arm, shook hands, pulled up her blanket wrap, and resumed her knitting with a fierce glance at Ogilvy, who had attempted an appealing smile.