or an hour in the limelight.
These were unworthy of pity. But what of those who offered themselves,
like _ghawazi_ in a Keneh bazaar, in return for the odious distinction
of knowing their charms to be "immortalised" by the brush of Orlando
James? These were beyond Flamby's powers of comprehension.

"But Lady Daphne is an exception. I am only surprised that she did not
want a pose which rendered her immediately recognisable."

"She did," drawled James, "but _I_ didn't."

"Was she really an ideal model or did you induce her to pose just to
please your colossal vanity?"

"My dear Flamby, it is next to impossible to find a flawless model among
the professionals. Hammett or anybody will tell you the same. They lack
that ideal delicacy, what Crozier calls 'the texture of nobility,' which
one finds in a woman of good family. Half the success of my big subjects
has been due to my models. This will be recognised when the history of
modern art comes to be written. I am held up at the moment, and that is
the reason why I am anxious to start on _Keats_."

"What is holding you up?"

"My model for _The Circassian_ has jibbed. Otherwise it would be
finished."

"There are disadvantages attaching to your method after all?"

"Yes. I shall avoid married models in future. Husbands are so
inartistic."

"You don't want me to believe that some misguided married woman has
been posing for _The Circassian_?"

"Why misguided? It will be a wonderful picture."

"It is that Eastern thing is it not?--the marble pool and a half veiled
figure lying beside it with one hand in the water?"

"Yes, but I've had to shelve it. Did I show you that last sketch for the
Keats picture?"

"You did, Orlando; but dismiss the idea that I am going to play Phryne
to your Apelles. It won't come off. It may work successfully with daft
society women who have got bored with pretending to be nurses and
ambulance drivers but you really cannot expect Flamby Duveen to begin
competing with the professional models. I could quote something from
Ovid that would be quite to the point but you wouldn't understand and I
should have to laugh all by myself."

"You are a tantalising little devil," said James, his dull brain seeking
vainly a clue to the cause of Flamby's obduracy.

Flamby, meanwhile maturing her plan, made the next move. "Is the Keats
picture to be more important than _The Circassian_?" she asked naively.

"Of course," James replied, believing that at l