o James's
studio. Don had written from France urging her to divulge the nature of
her misgivings respecting Paul and their connection with James, and
Flamby, greatly daring, had determined to obtain confirmation of the
doubts which troubled her. She wore the Liberty dress of grey velvet,
and as she bent over an Arab coffee-table and her pretty hands busied
themselves amid the old silver of the tea-service, Flamby made a
delectable study which Orlando James who watched her found to be
exceedingly tantalising. He flicked cigarette ash on to the floor and
admired the creamy curve of Flamby's neck as she lowered her head in the
act of pouring out tea.

"What a pretty neck you have, kid," he said in his drawling
self-confident way.

"Yes," replied Flamby, dropping pieces of sugar into the cups, "it isn't
so bad as necks go. But I should have liked it to be white instead of
yellow."

"It isn't yellow: it's a delicious sort of old-ivory velvet which I am
just itching to paint."

"Then why don't you?" inquired Flamby, composedly settling herself in a
nest of cushions on the floor.

"Because you will never pose for me."

"You have never asked me."

"Why I asked you only a few days ago to pose for my next big picture."

Flamby sipped hot tea and looked up at James scornfully. "Do you think
I'm daft!" she said. "I am a painter not a model. If you want to paint
my portrait I don't mind, but if you've got an idea in your head that I
am ever likely to pose for the figure you can get it out as quick as
lightning."

James lounged in a long rest-chair, watching her languidly. "You're a
funny girl," he said. "I thought I was paying you a compliment, but
perhaps it's a sore point. Where's the flaw, kid?"

"The flaw?"

"Yes, what is it--knotty knees? It certainly isn't thick ankles."

Flamby had much ado to preserve composure; momentarily her thoughts
became murderous. This was truly a 'sore point,' but mentally comparing
Orlando James with Sir Jacques she was compelled to admit that the bold
roue was preferable to the masked satyr. She placed her tea cup on a
corner of the Arab table and smoothed her skirt placidly.

"Spotty skin," she replied. "Haven't you seen my picture in the
newspapers advertising somebody's ointment?"

James stared in the dull manner which characterised his reception of a
joke. "Is that funny, Flamby?" he said, "because I don't believe it is
true."

"Don't you? Well, it doesn't matter. Do you wa