He watched her closely as he put the question. She was holding up a beautiful point lace creation for his inspection, and there was a pleading smile on her lips. It must have been her favourite gown. The smile faded away. The hand that dangled the garment before his eyes suddenly became motionless, as if paralysed. In the next instant, she recovered herself, and, giving the lace a quick fillip that sent its odour of sachet leaping to his nostrils, responded with perfect composure.
"Isn't there a distinction between posing for an artist, and sitting for one's portrait?" she asked.
He was silent. The fact that he did not respond seemed to disturb her after a moment or two. She made the common mistake of pressing the question.
"Why do you ask?" was her inquiry. When it was too late she wished she had not uttered the words. He had caught the somewhat anxious note in her voice.
"We always ask that, I think," he said. "It's a habit."
"Oh," she said doubtfully.
"And by the way, you haven't answered."
She was busy with the gown for a time. At last she looked him full in the face.
"That's true," she agreed; "I haven't answered, have I? No, Mr. Booth, I've never posed for a portrait. It is a new experience for me. You will have to contend with a great deal of stupidity on my part. But I shall try to be plastic."
He uttered a polite protest, and pursued the question no farther. Her answer had been so palpably evasive that it struck him as bald, even awkward.