"Here," said Vi, "in my recticule."
They laughed. Ten minutes later Vi appeared in her filmy costume.
Lewis's face no longer smiled. He was sitting on a bench at the farther
end of the room, solemnly smoking a pipe. He did not seem to notice that
Vi's whole body was suffused, nervous.
"Dance," said Lewis.
Vi hesitated a moment and then danced, at first a little stiffly. But her mind gradually concentrated on her movements; she began to catch the impersonal working atmosphere of a model.
"Hold that!" cried Lewis, and, a second later: "No, that will never do.
You've stiffened. Try again."
Over and over Vi tried to catch the pose and keep it until, without a word, she crossed the room, threw herself on a couch, and began to cry from pure exhaustion. When she had partly recovered, she suddenly awoke to the fact that Lewis had not come to comfort her. She looked up. Lewis was still sitting on the bench. He was filling a fresh pipe.
"Blown over?" he asked casually. "Come on. At it again."
At the end of another half-hour Vi gave up the struggle. She had caught the pose twice, but she had been unable to hold it.
"I give it up," she wailed. "I'll simply never be able to stay that way."
"If you were a professional dancer," said Lewis, "I'd say 'nonsense' to that. But you're not. I'm afraid it would take you weeks, perhaps months, to get the stamina. Take it easy now while I make some tea."