She remained silent so long that he had started to write, "probably unreliable," under his notes; but, as his pencil began to move, her lips unclosed with, a low, breathless sound that became a ghost of a voice:
"I will do what you require of me. I meant to answer."
"Do you mean that you are in a position to make a time contract with me?—provided you prove to be what I need?"
She nodded uncertainly.
"I'm beginning the ceiling, lunettes, and panels for the Byzantine Theatre," he added, sternly stroking his short mustache, "and under those circumstances I suppose you know what a contract between us means."
She nodded again, but in her eyes was bewilderment, and in her heart, fear.
"Yes," she managed to say, "I think I understand."
"Very well. I merely want to say that a model threw me down hard in the very middle of the Bimmington's ball-room. Max Schindler put on a show, and she put for the spot-light. She'd better stay put," he added grimly: "she'll never have another chance in your guild."
Then the frown vanished, and the exceedingly engaging smile glimmered in his eyes:
"You wouldn't do such a thing as that to me," he added; "would you,
Miss West?"