“Quite right,” said he, “but in Europe and in the East, and even here in Chicago, in some circles, it is looked upon as indispensable, you know.”
“In art, at least,” she went on, “there is no sex. Whoever can help me in my work is a companion that I don’t need any chaperon to protect me from. If I wasn’t perfectly sure of that, I should give up and go back home.”
“Now, don’t draw the line so as to shut me out,” he protested. “How can I help you with your work?”
She looked him steadily in the face now, her intent and questioning regard shading off into a somewhat arch smile.
“I can’t think of any way,” said she, “unless it would be by posing for me.”
“There’s another way,” he answered, “and the only one I’d care about.”
She suddenly became absorbed in the contemplation of the paints on her palette, at which she made little thrusts with a brush; and at last she queried, doubtfully, “How?”
“I’ve heard or read,” he answered, “that no artist ever rises to the highest, you know, until after experiencing some great love. I—can’t you think of any other way besides the posing?”
She brought the brush close to her eyes, minutely inspecting its point for a moment, then seemed to take in his expression with a swift sweeping glance, resumed the examination of the brush, and finally looked him in the face again, a little red spot glowing in her cheek, and a glint of fire in her eye. I was too dense to understand it, but I felt that there was a trace of resentment in her mien.
“Oh, I don’t know about that!” she said. “There may be some other way. I haven’t met all your friends, and you may be the means of introducing me to the very man.”