-models."

"Sensible," he commented, noting the detail in his book. "Now, Miss
West, for whom have you recently posed?"

And, as she made no reply, he looked up amiably, balancing his pencil in
his hand and repeating the question.

"Is it necessary to--tell you?"

"Not at all. One usually asks that question, probably because you models
are always so everlastingly anxious to tell us--particularly when the
men for whom you have posed are more famous than the poor devil who
offers you an engagement."

There was something very good humoured in his smile, and she strove to
smile, too, but her calmness was now all forced, and her heart was
beating very fast, and her black-gloved fingers were closing and
doubling till the hands that rested on the arms of the gilded antique
chair lay tightly clenched.

He was leisurely writing in his note book under her name:

"Height, medium; eyes, a dark brown; hair, thick, lustrous, and brown;
head, unusually beautiful; throat and neck, perfect--"

He stopped writing and lifted his eyes:

"How much of your time is taken ahead, I wonder?"

"What?"

"How many engagements have you? Is your time all cut up--as I fancy it
is?"

"N-no."

"Could you give me what time I might require?"

"I think so."

"What I mean, Miss West, is this: suppose that your figure is what I
have an idea it is; could you give me a lot of time ahead?"

She remained silent so long that he had started to write, "probably
unreliable," under his notes; but, as his pencil began to move, her lips
unclosed with, a low, breathless sound that became a ghost of a voice:

"I will do what you require of me. I meant to answer."

"Do you mean that you are in a position to make a time contract with
me?--provided you prove to be what I need?"

She nodded uncertainly.

"I'm beginning the ceiling, lunettes, and panels for the Byzantine
Theatre," he added, sternly stroking his short mustache, "and under
those circumstances I suppose you know what a contract between us
means."

She nodded again, but in her eyes was bewilderment, and in her heart,
fear.

"Yes," she managed to say, "I think I understand."

"Very well. I merely want to say that a model threw me down hard in the
very middle of the Bimmington's ball-room. Max Schindler put on a show,
and she put for the spot-light. She'd better stay put," he added grimly:
"she'll never have another chance in your guild."

Then the frown vanished, and the exceedingl