“Mais, oui.” The head was nodded vigorously. “Sall I pose for you?”
“Don’t know what you’re like yet,” said Miss Mason.
“There is a proverb, O infant,” supplemented Barnabas, “which instructs one never to buy a pig in a poke. Acting on that principle, it is impossible for us to decide on a model attired as you are. Therefore——” he broke off.
“Oh, my tings,” she nodded gravely. “I take zem off.”
The figure tossed the slouched hat on to a chair. It was followed by the coat and the boots, which later were kicked off, disclosing bare feet small and well-arched.
There stood before them a slip of a girl-child, in a faded green frock, black hair cut square on the forehead and at the nape of the neck, after the fashion of some mediæval page, the face white, with pointed chin and geranium-coloured mouth, eyes grey with pupils large and very black. She might have been about nine years old.
She raised her hands to the back of her neck, unfastening mysterious strings. Before Miss Mason was aware of her intention, she slid suddenly out of her clothes and stood on the hearthrug before them, naked as the day on which she was born.
“Bien?” she queried.
Miss Mason gave a faint shriek.
“Barnabas, turn your back and leave the studio at once. I never paint a nude model. It is against all my principles to do so. Put on your clothes again at once, child. Barnabas, stop laughing. I know you’re perfectly brazen on the subject. Remember, in spite of my age, I’m an unmarried woman.”