She looked at him, not comprehending.
"I—I must have a living model—for these," he stammered. "Didn't you understand? I want you to work from."
From brow to throat the scarlet stain deepened and spread. She turned, laid one small hand on the back of the chair, faltered, sank onto it, covering her face.
"I thought you understood," he repeated stupidly. "Forgive me—I thought you understood what sort of help I needed." He dropped on one knee beside her. "I am so sorry. Try to reason a little. You—you must know I meant no offense—that I never could wish to offend you. Look at me, please; I am not that sort of a man. Can't you realize how desperate I was—how I dared hazard the chance that you might help me?"
She rose, her face still covered.
"Can't you comprehend?" he pleaded, "that I meant no offense?"
"Y-yes. Let me go."
"Can you forgive me?"
"I—yes."