"Yes, it is."
"How?"
"Oh, I don't know. A girl usually loves the wrong man. To be poor
is always bad enough, but to be in love, too, is really very
dreadful. It usually finishes us--you know."
"Are you in love?" he inquired, managing to repress his amusement.
"I could be. I know that much." She went to the sink, turned on the
water, washed her hands, and stood with dripping fingers looking
about for a towel.
"I'll get you one," he said. When he brought it, she laughed and
held out her hands to be dried.
"Do you think you are a Sultana?" he inquired, draping the towel
across her outstretched arms and leaving it there.
"I thought perhaps you'd dry them," she said sweetly.
"Not in the business," he remarked; and lighted his pipe.
Her hands were her particular beauty, soft and snowy. She was much
in demand among painters, and had posed many times for pictures of
the Virgin, her hands usually resting against her breast.
Now she bestowed great care upon them, thoroughly drying each
separate, slender finger. Then she pushed back the heavy masses of
her hair--"a miracle of silk and sunshine," as Quair had whispered
to her. That same hair, also, was very popular among painters.
It was her figure that fascinated sculptors.
"Are you ready?" grunted Drene. Work presently recommenced.
She was entirely accustomed to praise from men, for her general
attractiveness, for various separate features in what really was an
unusually lovely ensemble.
She was also accustomed to flattery, to importunity, to the ordinary
variety of masculine solicitation; to the revelation of genuine
feeling, too, in its various modes of expression--sentimental,
explosive, insinuating--the entire gamut.
She had remained, however, untouched; curious and amused, perhaps,
yet quite satisfied, so far, to be amused; and entirely content with
her own curiosity.
She coquetted when she thought it safe; learned many things she had
not suspected; was more cautious afterwards, but still, at
intervals, ventured to use her attractiveness as a natural lure, as
an excuse, as a reason, as a weapon, when the probable consequences
threatened no embarrassment or unpleasantness for her.
She was much liked, much admired, much attempted, and entirely
untempted.
When the Make-up Club gave its annual play depicting the foibles of
artists and writers in the public eye, Cecile White was always cast
for a role which included singing and dancing.
On and off for the last year or two she had posed for Drene, had
dropped into his studio to lounge about when he had no need of her
professionally, and when she had half an hour of idleness
confronting her.