“Just about as exciting.  Some few business men may smirk at their stenographers; some few painters may behave in the same way to their models.  I fancy it’s the exception to the rule in any kind of business—­isn’t it, Sandy?”

“Certainly,” said Cameron, hastily.  “I never winked at my stenographer—­never! never!  Will you deal, Mr. Querida?” he asked, courteously.

“I should think a girl like that would be interesting to know,” said Lily Collis, who had come up behind her brother and Stephanie Swift and stood, a hand on each of their shoulders, listening and looking on at the card game.

“That is what I wanted to say, too,” nodded Stephanie.  “I’d like to meet a really nice girl who is courageous enough, and romantic enough to pose for artists—­”

“You mean poor enough, don’t you?” said Neville.  “They don’t do it because it’s romantic.”

“It must be romantic work.”

“It isn’t, I assure you.  It’s drudgery—­and sometimes torture.”

Stephanie laughed:  “I believe it’s easy work and a gay existence full of romance.  Don’t undeceive me, Louis.  And I think you’re selfish not to let us meet your beautiful Valerie at tea.”

“Why not?” added his sister.  “I’d like to see her myself.”

“Oh, Lily, you know perfectly well that oil and water don’t mix,” he said with a weary shrug.

“I suppose we’re the oil,” remarked Rose Aulne—­“horrid, smooth, insinuating stuff.  And his beautiful Valerie is the clear, crystalline, uncontaminated fountain of inspiration.”

Lily Collis dropped her hands from Stephanie’s and her brother’s shoulders: 

“Do ask us to tea to meet her, Louis,” she coaxed.

“We’ve never seen a model—­”

“Do you want me to exhibit a sensitive girl as a museum freak?” he asked, impatiently.

“Don’t you suppose we know how to behave toward her?  Really, Louis, you—­”

“Probably you know how to behave.  And I can assure you that she knows perfectly well how to behave toward anybody.  But that isn’t the question.  You want to see her out of curiosity.  You wouldn’t make a friend of her—­or even an acquaintance.  And I tell you, frankly, I don’t think it’s square to her and I won’t do it.  Women are nuisances in studios, anyway.”

“What a charming way your brother has of explaining things,” laughed Stephanie, passing her arm through Lily’s:  “Shall we reveal to him that he was seen with his Valerie at the St. Regis a week ago?”

“Why not?” he said, coolly, but inwardly exasperated.  “She’s as ornamental as anybody who dines there.”

“I don’t do that with my stenographers!” called out Cameron gleefully, cleaning up three odd in spades.  “Oh, don’t talk to me, Louis!  You’re a gay bunch all right!—­you’re qualified, every one of you, artists and models, to join the merry, merry!”

Stephanie dropped Lily’s arm with a light laugh, swung her tennis bat, tossed a ball into the sunshine, and knocked it over toward the tennis court.