But she preferred to remain silent. To tell the truth, this was not Erna’s first experience as a sitter. She had posed for two or three other artists in the past: once as Carmen, another time as a madonna, and a third time for some allegorical effort concerning Spring. Breen continued to study her for the drawing. His mind, however, or that region wherein its desires lay, was more busy than his pencil. Ten minutes or so later, he stopped drawing and held the pad off, squinted one eye at Erna, then at the drawing and again at Erna.
“Do you like being winked at?” he asked.
“Depends upon who’s doin’ it,” she commented.
“Don’t you like me to do it?”
“I don’t know,” she replied enigmatically.
He got up from his chair and approached her.
“Bring the picture with you!” she requested.
Breen, however, once more tried to put his hands on her. She pushed back her chair, and in outraged tones commanded: “Mr. Breen!”
“I beg your pardon,” he said with well assumed candor, but he was irritated to a considerable degree. “I merely wanted to change your pose a bit.”
“Well, why didn’t you ask me to do it?” she complained, her innocent self again.