He brought out a bottle wrapped in a napkin, and a big plate of cakes. He said:
“I want you to taste my own special brand of champagne cocktail.”
He talked a great deal then about brands of wines and mixtures, etc., while I munched on the cakes which I found difficulty in swallowing, because of the lump in my throat. But I was determined not to break down before them, and I even drank some of the cocktail he had mixed for me. Presently, I said:
“Well, I guess I’ll go,” and I gathered up my things. Mr. Sands stood up and put his hands on my shoulders. Miss St. Denis was standing at his elbow, and she watched me all the time he was speaking.
“Now, Miss Ascough, I am going to make a suggestion to you. I see you are determined not to go back. Now the only way I can think of your making a living is by posing.”
I drew back from him.
“I am an artist,” I said, “and the daughter of an artist.”
He patted me on the back.
“That’s all right. I know how you feel. I’ve been a Canadian myself; but there’s no use getting mad with me for merely trying to help you. You will starve here in Boston, and I’m simply pointing out to you a method of earning your living. There’s no disgrace connected with such work, if it is done in the proper spirit. As far as that goes, many of the art students are earning extra money to help pay their tuition that way. The models here get pretty good pay. Thirty-five cents an hour for costume posing and fifty cents for the nude. We here in Boston pay better than they do in New York, and we treat them better, too. Of course, there are not so many of us here and we haven’t as much work, but a model can make a fair living, isn’t that so, Miss St. Denis?”
She nodded slowly, her eyes still on me; but there was something warm and pitying in their dark depths.