Her face was wreathed with smiles, and she stuck out her foot, the instep coyly arched, as she said:
“Yes, it’s true my feet are shapely and small. I only take threes, though I could easily wear twos or twos and a half.” Then with a very gracious bend of her head and a smile she added winningly: “I believe it might be perfectly proper to allow you to use my foot as a model, especially as Marion is here.” She beamed on me sweetly.
I removed her shoe and stocking, and the Count carefully covered over a stool with a soft piece of velvet, upon which he set her precious foot. Enthusiastically he went to work drawing that foot. She playfully demanded that he must never tell anyone that her foot was the model for the sketch, though all the time I knew she wanted him to do just that.
When he was through and we had all loudly exclaimed over the beauty of the drawing, she said:
“And now, Count Hatzfeldt, may I see the copy of my daughter’s picture?”
The Count had covered it over before opening the door.
“Certainly, madame.”
He drew the cover from the painting.
“Here it is. Miss Alice did sit for the face. The lower part—it was posed by a professional model. It is the custom, madame.”
“As I see,” said Mrs. Wheatley, examining the