“Better hurry,” he said, pleasantly.  “If you’re what I need we might start things now.  I am all ready for the sort of figure I expect you have.”

She stepped inside the room and became desperately busy for a moment trying to close the doors; but either her hands had suddenly become powerless or they shook too much; and when he turned, almost impatiently, from his easel to see what all that rattling meant, she shrank hastily aside into the room beyond, keeping out of his view.

The room was charming—­not like the studio, but modern and fresh and dainty with chintz and flowered wall-paper and the graceful white furniture of a bed-room.  There was a flowered screen there, too.  Behind it stood a chair, and onto this she sank, laid her hands for an instant against her burning face, then stooped and, scarcely knowing what she was about, began to untie her patent-leather shoes.

He remained standing at his easel, very busy with his string and lump of charcoal; but after a while it occurred to him that she was taking an annoyingly long time about a simple matter.

“What on earth is the trouble?” he called.  “Do you realise you’ve been in there a quarter of an hour?”

She made no answer.  A second later he thought he heard an indistinct sound—­and it disquieted him.

“Miss West?”

There was no reply.

Impatient, a little disturbed, he walked across to the folding doors; and the same low, suppressed sound caught his ear.

“What in the name of—­” he began, walking into the room; and halted, amazed.

She sat all huddled together behind the screen, partly undressed, her face hidden in her hands; and between the slender fingers tears ran down brightly.

“Are you ill?” he asked, anxiously.

After a moment she slowly shook her head.

“Then—­what in the name of Mike—­”

“P-please forgive me.  I—­I will be ready in a in-moment—­if you wouldn’t mind going out—­”

“Are you ill?  Answer me?”

“N-no.”

“Has anything disturbed you so that you don’t feel up to posing to-day?”

“No....  I—­am—­almost ready—­if you will go out—­”

He considered her, uneasy and perplexed.  Then: 

“All right,” he said, briefly.  “Take your own time, Miss West.”

At his easel, fussing with yard-stick and crayon, he began to square off his canvas, muttering to himself: 

“What the deuce is the matter with that girl?  Nice moment to nurse secret sorrows or blighted affections.  There’s always something wrong with the best lookers....  And she is a real beauty—­or I miss my guess.”  He went on ruling off, measuring, grumbling, until slowly there came over him the sense of the nearness of another person.  He had not heard her enter, but he turned around, knowing she was there.

She stood silent, motionless, as though motion terrified her and inertia were salvation.  Her dark hair rippled to her waist; her white arms hung limp, yet the fingers had curled till every delicate nail was pressed deep into the pink palm.  She was trying to look at him.  Her face was as white as a flower.