She laughed deliciously in her new-born confidence.
"What is it you wish to ask?"
"I'll tell you," he said. "I need a model—and I'm too poor to pay for one. I've pledged everything in my studio. A chance has come to me. It's only a chance, however. But I can't take it because I cannot afford a model."
There was a silence; then she inquired what he meant by a model. And he told her—not everything, not clearly.
"You mean that you wish me to sit for my portrait in marble?"
"There are two figures to be executed for the new Department of Peace in Washington," he explained, "and they are to be called 'Soul' and 'Body.' Six sculptors have been invited to compete. I am one. We have a year before us."
She remained silent.
"It is perfectly apparent, of course, that you are exquis—admirably fitted"—he stammered under her direct gaze, then went on; "I scarcely dared dream of such a model even if I had the means to afford—" He could get no further.
"Are you really poor?" she asked in gentle wonder.
"At present—yes."