“I am Mr. Barres’s model,” she said, flushing.
“I shall have to arrange it with him, then,” he nodded, wearily.
“I don’t think you can.”
“Fancy! Why not?”
“Because I do not wish to sit to anybody except Mr. Barres,” she said candidly, “and what you paint does not interest me at all.”
“Are you familiar with my work?” he asked incredulously.
She shook her head, shrugged, and turned to Barres, who had at last relinquished Thessalie to Westmore.
“Well, Sweetness,” he said gaily, “do you get on with Esmé Trenor?”
“He talked,” she said in a voice perfectly audible to Esmé.
Barres glanced toward Esmé, secretly convulsed, but that young apostle of Fear had swung one thin leg over the other and was now presenting one shoulder and the back of his head to them both, apparently in delightful conversation with Elsena Helmund, who was fed up on him and his fears.