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“I was.”

“Oh—I’m disturbing you.” She made a movement to push off. He smiled in a noncommittal way, but said nothing. She did not conceal her discontent with treatment of a kind to which she apparently was not used. “You might at least have the politeness to say no. I’d not take advantage of it,” said she—a rebuke for his rudeness in her raillery.

“I was debating something.... I need you in my picture. But posing is tiresome work.”

She brightened. “I’d be glad to. Will you let me? I do so wish to be of some use. How long would it take?”

“Not long—that is, not long any one morning,” was his apologetic assurance.

“You mean—several mornings?” said she, a mingling of longing and hesitation in her expressive features.

“I work slowly.” The more he considered the matter the more necessary she seemed to his picture. His artist’s selfishness was aroused. “I’m sure you’d not mind,” said he, deliberately using a tone that would make refusal difficult, ungracious.

A curious strained expression came into her eyes as she reflected. “I—I—don’t know what to say.”