After a moment she slowly shook her head.
"Then—what in the name of Mike—"
"P-please forgive me. I—I will be ready in a in-moment—if you wouldn't mind going out—"
"Are you ill? Answer me?"
"N-no."
"Has anything disturbed you so that you don't feel up to posing to-day?"
"No…. I—am—almost ready—if you will go out—"
He considered her, uneasy and perplexed. Then:
"All right," he said, briefly. "Take your own time, Miss West."
At his easel, fussing with yard-stick and crayon, he began to square off his canvas, muttering to himself: