“Mr. Middleton’s, is it not?” she asked, in a very sweet voice.
Middleton bowed. It was late for a call, but if the lady ignored that fact, he could not remind her of it. Fortunately there was no chance of Angela coming at such an hour. He led the way to his studio.
“May I ask,” he began, “to what I am indebted for this honor?”
“I see you like coming to business directly,” she answered, her neatly gloved hands busy unpinning her veil. She seemed to find the task a little difficult.
“You see, it’s rather late,” said Middleton.
“Not at all. I am only just up. Well, then, to business. I hear you want a model for an Earthly Love.”
“Exactly. May I ask if you——”
“If I am a model? Oh, now and then—not habitually.”
“You know my requirements are somewhat hard to fulfill?”
“I can fulfill them,” and she raised her veil. She certainly could. She realized his wildest dreams—the wildest dream of poets and painters since the world began. Middleton stood half-stupefied before her.