in the absence of starched things such as we men throttle
ourselves with, had been pictures of comfortable coolness. But in the
street I plunged in an atmosphere of sodden heat and refused to obey the
instinct that usually leads me to walk whenever I am not pressed for
time. This happens often, for the productive hours of a writer are few,
leaving many to be employed in alleged thoughts. Of these the most
harrowing lie in the fact that a laborer can dig for eight hours a day,
whereas helplessness comes to me after writing a few pages.

I took the car, turning in my mind the observations I had made in the
studio. Several times I had heard Miss Van Rossum call my friend by his
first name, and the mother had manifested no surprise. They are probably
old acquaintances. I think he once told me that he had first met them in
Paris. For aught I know, however, he may have dandled her on his knees
when she was a child. The process now would be lacking in comfort, for
she outweighs him by a good thirty pounds. Her forearms seem larger and
just as hard as those of Frieda's pugilistic model. And then, Gordon is
a misogynist and considers the feminine form divine from a chilly,
artistic standpoint. From this I judged that Miss Van Rossum is a young
lady who calls every man she meets two or three times by his first name.
Gordon certainly doesn't mind it, but then, he got five thousand for the
portrait, a sum that excuses some lack of formality.

The young woman's looks are undeniable. She's an utterly handsome
creature and, as far as I have been able to see, accepts the fact as she
does the family fortune. It is something due to a Van Rossum, and she is
too ladylike to boast of such advantages. This serves to make her very
simple and natural. Like many of the mortals built on a generous scale
she is good tempered. I wondered that she had asked so few questions in
regard to the model of the picture she had seen. Practically, she had
come, looked and turned away to the contemplation of scrambled eggs with
truffles, followed by squabs. True, she had inquired whether the baby
belonged to the model. To Pygmalion his sculptured beauty came to life,
but from the young lady's standpoint I think that the purchased beauty
that is to be changed into limned or chiselled grace must be already
considered to have turned to paint or stone. If I had declared that a
model was probably a thing of pulsing blood and quivering nerves, it is
likely that sh