lips and contemplating
the fine colouring of the bowl, "she's a lady, for one thing."

"Oh, the devil!" I ejaculated; "that won't do!"

"Well, it might."

"Shouldn't fancy it. Ill at ease on her account, you know. How could one
tell a lady that she was out of pose--must sit still? How could one pay
her?"

"Very simple, if she's the real article."

"I never tried it," I demurred.

"Well"--Carrington had a soothing way of beginning a sentence--"you
might see her, at least. Her father is a socialist; a very harmless and
unnecessary one, but that accounts for her posing."

"Do the paternal unconventionalities countenance posing for the
_academie_? That savors of a really disconcerting latitude."

"The _academie_? Dear me, no! Oh, no; Miss Jones is a model of the
proprieties. One indeed can hardly connect her with even such mild
nonconformity as her father's socialism. He was a parson; had religious
scruples, and took to rather aimless humanitarianism and to very
excellent bookbinding in Hampstead. He binds a lot of my books for me;
and jolly good designing and tooling, too. You remember that Petrarch of
mine. That's really how I came to know him. It was the artist in him
that wrestled with and overthrew the parson. He seems a happy old chap;
poor as Job's turkey and absorbed in his work. He has rather longish
hair--wavy, and wears a leather belt and no collar." Carrington added:
"That's the first socialistic declaration of independence--they fling
their collars in the face of conventionality. But the belt and the lack
of collar are the only noticeable traces socialism seems to have left on
Mr. Jones, except that he lets his daughter make money by posing. He
must know about the people, of course. She usually sits for women. But I
can give you a recommendation."

I felt, to a certain extent, the same lack of enthusiasm that Carrington
himself had shown at the announcement of my "label," but I thanked him,
and said that I should be glad to see Miss Jones.

"And her mother was French, too," he added, as a cogent afterthought.
"That accounts for the rippled cheek-line." Miss Jones's cheek had
evidently made an emphatic impression. Indeed, Carrington's enthusiasm
seemed to wax on reflection, and, as interpreted by Miss Jones, my Manon
became tangible.

"How's her colouring?" I asked.

"Pale; her mouth is red, very red; charming figure, nice hands; I
remember them taking up the books--she was dusting the books. I've