"No. He has a bad cold, and I stopped in to see that he wore a red flannel bandage around his throat. A sculptor's work is so dreadfully wet and sloppy, and his throat has always been very delicate."
"Do you mean to say that you charge your mind with the coddling of that great big, pink-cheeked boy?" laughed Valerie,
"Coddling!" repeated Rita, flushing up. "I don't call it coddling to stop in for a moment to remind a friend that he doesn't know how to take care of himself, and never will."
"Nonsense. You couldn't kill a man of that size and placidity of character."
"You don't know anything about him. He is much more delicate than he looks."
Valerie glanced curiously at the girl, who was preparing oysters in the chafing dish.
"How do you happen to know so much about him, Rita?"
She answered, carelessly: "I have known him ever since I began to pose—almost."
Valerie set her cup aside, sprang up to rinse mouth and hands. Then, gathering her pink negligée around her, curled up in a big wing-chair, drawing her bare feet up under the silken folds and watching Rita prepare the modest repast for one.
"Rita," she said, "who was the first artist you ever posed for? Was it
John Burleson—and did you endure the tortures of the damned?"