She startled and the color flamed in her cheeks. Her eyes shot a glance of terror at him. "I—I," she stammered. Then almost defiantly, "Yes, I did—for a while. But I didn't suppose anyone knew. At the time we needed the money badly."
Norman felt deep disgust with himself for bursting out with such a question, and for having surprised her secret. "There's nothing to be ashamed of," he said gently.
"Oh, I'm not ashamed," she returned. Her agitation had subsided. "The only reason I quit was because the work was terribly hard and the pay small and uncertain. I was confused because they discharged me at the last place I had, when they found out I had been a model. It was a church paper office."
Again she poised her pencil and lowered her eyes. But he did not take the hint. "Is there anything you would rather do than this sort of work?" he asked.
"Nothing I could afford," replied she.
"If you had been kind to Miss Burroughs yesterday she would have helped you."
"I couldn't afford to do that," said the girl in her quiet, reticent way.
"To do what?"
"To be nice to anyone for what I could get out of it."
Norman smiled somewhat cynically. Probably the girl fancied she was truthful; but human beings rarely knew anything about their real selves. "What would you like to do?"