Reticent hitherto concerning her antecedents he learned now something of them—and inferred more; nothing unusual—a musical career determined upon, death intervening dragging over her isolation the steel meshes of destitution—the necessity for self-support, a friend who knew a painter who employed models—not anything unusual, not even dramatic.
He nodded as she ended:
“Have you saved anything?”
“A hundred dollars.”
“That’s fine.”
She smiled, then sighed unconsciously.
“You are thinking,” he said, “that youth is flying.”
She smiled wistfully.
“Youth is the time to study. You were thinking that, too.”
She nodded.