"Any deviltry?"
"Any outlet."
"You ought to have."
"Ought I?"
"Certainly. You are as full of restless energy as I am."
"Oh, I don't think I am."
"You are. Look at yourself! I never saw anybody so sound, so superbly healthy, so"—he laughed—"adapted to dynamics. You've got to have an outlet. Or there'll be the deuce to pay."
She looked at her fruit salad gravely, tasted it, and glanced up at him:
"I have never in all my life had any outlet—never even any outlook, Mr.
Neville."
"You should have had both," he grumbled, annoyed at himself for the interest her words had for him; uneasy, now that she had responded, yet curious to learn something about this fair young girl, approximately his intellectual equal, who came to his door looking for work as a model. He thought to himself that probably it was some distressing tale which he couldn't help, and the recital of which would do neither of them any good. Of stories of models' lives he was tired, satiated. There was no use encouraging her to family revelations; an easy, pleasant footing was far more amusing to maintain. The other hinted of intimacy; and that he had never tolerated in his employees.