Tom worked as much as he could without a model, copying exactly his clay sketch; but for the “lady’s” arms one was necessary. And she too helped to melt the £150. She certainly had superb arms, and she stood splendidly. She also added her contribution—a not unimportant one—to the little jars which sometimes occurred between Tom and May.
She was a young woman of unquestionably fine physique, but her tongue was a rather unruly member, and she spoke freely. Tom used to tell her to be quiet and stand, but sometimes she came out with something very breezy and sudden. She once made a particularly breezy remark when May was there. May turned to Tom flushing, and asked him in French to tell her to be quiet. Tom, who had a great sympathy with life in all its forms—the model’s remark was not a particularly vicious form—smiled, but told her to be silent. May left the room.
The girl’s eyes followed her out of the room, and then without moving she spoke to Tom.
“Well, ayn’t she perticler? A lydy friend of mine, she——”
“Never mind about your lady friends. You’ve moved your arm. A little more forward, please and the wrist more bent.”
May was sitting in the dining-room when Tom came in for lunch, looking angry and flushed.
“Tom, you mustn’t have that woman in the house,” she said. “She is abominable.”
“Who?” asked Tom, who had forgotten the occurence.
“The model, of course.”
Tom raised his eyebrows.