“To bring back that dreadful book.”
Her sardonic laugh jarred on his ear-drums.
“A man doesn’t come to a woman’s studio late at night to bring back a book,” she said.
“I must go, really I must,” declared Edwin, wondering, as he spoke, where to.
He put his hand on the door-knob; the door seemed to be locked.
“Please reconsider your decision,” said Valerie Keat. She turned on her most pathetic look. “If I could paint you it would mean everything to me; everything, do you understand? You have my artistic career at your mercy. Won’t you help me?”
He hesitated. To one so good at heart as he, such an appeal could not go unanswered.
“I’d like to,” he began, “but Emerson says——”
“Besides,” she broke in, “think of the ten dollars.”
Had she read his inmost thoughts?