"And under the X-ray scrutiny of this profound analysis," she laughed, "do you like me?"
"Wait and see," was his non-committal rejoinder.
For a few moments, neither of them spoke. He sat there gazing up, and she gazing down. Though neither of them said it, both were thinking of the changes that had taken place since, in this same room, they had first met. The man knew that many of the changes in himself were due to her, and she began to wonder vaguely if he had not also been responsible for certain differences in her.
He felt for her, besides a deep friendship—such a deep friendship that it might perhaps be even more—a measureless gratitude. She had been loyal, and had turned and shaped with her deft hand and brain the rough clay of his crude personality into something that was beginning to show finish and design. Perhaps, she liked him the better because of certain obstinate qualities which, even to her persuasive influence, remained unaltered. But, if she liked him the better for these things, she yet felt that her dominion over him was not complete.
Now, as they sat there alone in the studio, a shaft of sunlight from the skylight fell on his squarely blocked chin, and he tossed his head, throwing back the long lock from his forehead. It was as though he was emphasizing with that characteristic gesture one of the things in which he had not yielded to her modeling. The long hair still fell low around his head. Just now, he was roughly dressed and paint-stained, but usually he presented the inconspicuous appearance of the well-groomed man—except for that long hair. It was not so much as a matter of personal appearance but as a reminder of the old roughness that she resented this. She had often suggested a visit to the barber, but to no avail.
"Although I am not painting you," she said with a smile, "I have been studying you, too. As you stand there before your canvas, your own personality is revealed—and I have not been entirely unobservant myself."
"'And under the X-ray scrutiny of this profound analysis,'" he quoted with a laugh, "do you like me?"
"Wait and see," she retorted.
"At all events"—he spoke gravely—"you must try to like me a little, because I am not what I was. The person that I am is largely the creature of your own fashioning. Of course, you had very raw material to work with, and you can't make a silk purse of"—he broke off and smiled—"well, of me, but in time you may at least get me mercerized a little."
For no visible reason, she flushed, and her next question came a trifle eagerly: