"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