“I won’t bother to draw you except with a brush——”
He looked across at her, remained looking, the pleasantly detached expression of his features gradually changing to curiosity, to the severity of increasing interest, to concentrated and silent absorption.
“Dulcie,” he presently concluded, “you are so unusually interesting and paintable that you make me think very seriously.... And I’m hanged if I’m going to waste you by slapping a technically adequate sketch of you onto this nice new canvas ... which might give me pleasure while I’m doing it ... and 98 might even tickle my vanity for a week ... and then be laid away to gather dust ... and be covered over next year and used for another sketch.... No.... No!... You’re worth more than that!”
He began to pace the place to and fro, thinking very hard, glancing around at her from moment to moment, where she stood, obediently immovable on the blue meshed rug, clasping the Prophet to her breast.
“Do you want to become my private model?” he demanded abruptly. “I mean seriously. Do you?”
“Yes.”
“I mean a real model, from whom I can ask anything?”
“Oh, yes, please,” pleaded the girl, trembling a little.
“Do you understand what it means?”
“Yes.”