“To think,” pursued the painter, “of what her Maker meant her to be, and of how she has belied it! She’s essentially and fundamentally a beautiful woman; that is why I want her for a model.”
‘“In the structure of her face, perhaps—”
“Yes; and all through. Look at the set of her shoulders, and the lines of her when she walks. Nothing jerry-built about her! She’s got the contours of a goddess and the finish of a mud-pie. It’s maddening.”
“More maddening from the physician’s point of view than from the artist’s. For the physician knows how needless it all is.”
“Is she your patient?”
“If she were I’d be ashamed to admit it. Give me military authority and a year’s time and if I couldn’t fix her so that she’d be proud to pose for your picture—Good Heavens!”
From behind the drapery of the passageway appeared Louise Ennis. She took two steps toward the two men and threw out her hands in an appeal which was almost grotesque.
“Is it true?” she cried, turning from one to the other. “Tell me, is it really true?”
“My dear young lady,” groaned Taylor, “what can I say to palliate my unpard—”
“Nevermind that! I don’t care. I don’t care anything about it. It’s my own fault. I stopped and listened. I couldn’t help it. It means so much to me. You can’t know. No man can understand. Is it true that I—that my face—”