“You’ll pose for the shoulders?”
He gulped, but nodded. He felt his breath coming in short, cold pants; his brow was icy damp. He heard her low voice say:
“You’ll pose for . . . the figure?”
The room swam before his eyes; his cheeks were conflagrations; he drew in his breath with an effort, and gulped again.
“I’ll do . . . whatever models do,” he said.
Her eyes ran over him like flies over a cake; beneath them he trembled. How his heart throbbed! In a nightmare, he heard her say.
“Good! Go behind that screen.”
To Edwin Dell the lights were blurred now; the singing in his ears was frenzied. His pallid face was set. Walking like an automaton, he went behind the crimson screen. Slowly his quivering fingers fumbled with his polka-dot tie; his shoe lace seared his finger-tips. . . .
“Come, get a wiggle on. Don’t take all night. I’m waiting,” he heard the woman say. Her voice sounded, somehow, tense.
His teeth bit his bloodless lips; his nails dug into the palms of his hands.