“Don’t you trust me?” she asked.
“I trust everyone,” said Edwin Dell, gently. “But then I am so very young.”
“It was your youth that attracted me,” she said; then added hastily, “Don’t misunderstand me. I am speaking purely in a professional sense. I am an artist, you know. I want you for a model.”
Edwin Dell shrank from her.
“Me?” he said. “A model?”
“Yes, why not?” Her manner was most reassuring. “I want to paint a Galahad or maybe a Parsifal. You’d be perfect. I suppose you know”—here she lowered her voice and her eyes were full of meaning—“that you are very handsome.”
“You must not say such things to me,” said Edwin Dell.
“Forgive me,” she murmured, “but I forgot myself.” Then, very businesslike, “But you will pose for me, won’t you?”
Edwin Dell drew back.
“You’ve been kind to me, Miss Keat,” he said, “but please don’t ask this thing of me. Ask anything, but not that.”