She looked at him with a strained, wistful expression as though begging him to understand her:
"I couldn't remain at the theatre," she said. "I had little talent—no chance except chances I would not tolerate; no companionship except what I was unfitted for by education and inclination…. The men were—impossible. There may have been girls I could have liked—but I did not meet them. So, as I had to do something—and my years of seclusion with mother had unfitted me for any business—for office work or shop work—I thought that artists might care to employ me—might give me—or let me see—be near—something of the gayer, brighter, more pleasant and youthful side of life—"
She ceased, bent her head thoughtfully.
"You want—friends? Young ones—with intellects? You want to combine these with a chance of making a decent living?"
"Yes." She looked up candidly: "I am simply starved for it. You must believe that when you see what I have submitted to—gone through with in your studio"—she blushed vividly—"in a—a desperate attempt to escape the—the loneliness, the silence and isolation"—she raised her dark eyes—"the isolation of the poor," she said. "You don't know what that means."
After a moment she added, level-eyed: "For which there is supposed to be but one outlet—if a girl is attractive."
He rose, walked to and fro for a few moments, then, halting:
"All memory of the initial terror and distress and uncertainty aside, have you not enjoyed this morning, Miss West?"
"Yes, I—have. I—you have no idea what it has meant to me."
"It has given you an outlook, anyway."