'Come in!' cried the voice, rather a pleasant voice; but what is a pleasant voice if the soul be vile?
Annette went in. The room was a typical Chelsea studio, scantily furnished and lacking a carpet. In the centre was an easel, behind which were visible a pair of trousered legs. A cloud of grey smoke was curling up over the top of the easel.
'I beg your pardon,' began Annette.
'I don't want any models at present,' said the Brute. 'Leave your card on the table.'
'I am not a model,' said Annette, coldly. 'I merely came—'
At this the Brute emerged from his fortifications and, removing his pipe from his mouth, jerked his chair out into the open.
'I beg your pardon,' he said. 'Won't you sit down?'
How reckless is Nature in the distribution of her gifts! Not only had this black-hearted knocker on floors a pleasant voice, but, in addition, a pleasing exterior. He was slightly dishevelled at the moment, and his hair stood up in a disordered mop; but in spite of these drawbacks, he was quite passably good-looking. Annette admitted this. Though wrathful, she was fair.
'I thought it was another model,' he explained. 'They've been coming in at the rate of ten an hour ever since I settled here. I didn't object at first, but after about the eightieth child of sunny Italy had shown up it began to get on my nerves.'
Annette waited coldly till he had finished.