Oren Taylor was an artist in more than his art: he possessed the rare sense of the fit thing to do and say.
“It is true,” he answered quietly, “that I have seen few faces more justly and beautifully modeled than yours.”
“And you,” she said, whirling upon Dr. Strong. “Can you do what you said? Can you make me good-looking?”
“Not I. But you yourself can.”
“Oh, how? What must I do? D—d—don’t think me a fool!” She was half-sobbing now. “It may be silly to long so bitterly to be beautiful. But I’d give anything short of life for it.”
“Not silly at all,” returned Dr. Strong emphatically. “On the contrary, that desire is rooted in the profoundest depths of sex.”
“And is the best excuse for art as a profession,” said the painter, smiling.
“Only tell me what to do,” she besought. “Gently,” said Dr. Strong. “It can’t be done in a day. And it will be a costly process.”
“That doesn’t matter. If money is all—”
“It isn’t all. It’s only a drop in the bucket. It will cost you dear in comfort, in indulgence, in ease, in enjoyment, in habit—”