"Yes,"—less confidently.
"Draped or undraped?"
When he looked up again, for an instant he thought her skin even whiter than it had been; perhaps not, for, except the vivid lips and a carnation tint in the cheeks, the snowy beauty of her face and neck had already preoccupied him.
"Do you pose undraped?" he repeated, interested.
"I—expect to do—what is—required of—models."
"Sensible," he commented, noting the detail in his book. "Now, Miss
West, for whom have you recently posed?"
And, as she made no reply, he looked up amiably, balancing his pencil in his hand and repeating the question.
"Is it necessary to—tell you?"
"Not at all. One usually asks that question, probably because you models are always so everlastingly anxious to tell us—particularly when the men for whom you have posed are more famous than the poor devil who offers you an engagement."
There was something very good humoured in his smile, and she strove to smile, too, but her calmness was now all forced, and her heart was beating very fast, and her black-gloved fingers were closing and doubling till the hands that rested on the arms of the gilded antique chair lay tightly clenched.