“I will be your model,” said Edwin Dell.
He sank back into his chair; there was a singing in his ears, a dancing before his eyes.
“Go ahead, paint me,” he said, almost with sang froid.
She came close to him and fastened on him intense eyes.
“You say you’ll be my model?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“You know what that means.”
“I think so.”
“You’ll pose for the head?”
He nodded.