"See here, Jennie," he said, sternly. "You're going to funk it. All right! It doesn't make much difference to me. The other girl—it's Emma Brasshead—you know!—she was the middle one in Sims's three nudes—perfectly stunning hips—"
"I'll be here to-morrow—right on the dot."
He wheeled away as far as the space of the dressing-room would permit.
"Oh, well, Jennie, I don't know that it would be of much use, after all. Emma's the type, you see. You'd be too—"
"You can't tell that till—till you've tried me out."
"I can try you out right through your clothes. What's a man a painter for?"
"If you can do that, why did you want me to—"
He turned sharply.
"Jennie, you're not straight with me."
"Oh, but I am! I'm as straight with you as—as you are with me. But I can't help being sick."