My dear, I’m earning my own living, and, according to the Willoughbys, it’s the most extravagant thing I’ve done in the whole course of my extravagant career. You see, every time I remember I’m a working woman, I feel independent, and order a lot of new things, and the bills have been rather stiff, I’ll admit. But you know how miserly the Willoughbys are! Aunt Susan suggested that I figure up how much I’m going to get and try to live on it, but I declined most emphatically. I never was good at doing sums, and I don’t propose to begin to subtract and add at this late day. Besides, I haven’t the remotest idea how much I’m going to receive, for I refuse to let Mr. Ormsby mention the matter. Money matters are _so tiresome_. But I’m forgetting that you know nothing about my _job_. I’m a model--a literary man’s model. You’re in with that literary set, so I suppose you’ve read his books. I read one--Billie Scott raved so about it that I simply had to--but there wasn’t a woman in it, just a lot of horrid men, that smoked and swore when they weren’t fighting, and that fought when they weren’t swearing and smoking. It seems that Mr. Ormsby’s publishers have insisted upon his turning over a new leaf and writing something about women, and, knowing nothing about our sex, Betty, he conceived the strictly original idea of employing a model. I came down to Rosemount in Billie’s motor car, and picked him--Mr. Ormsby--up and took him along with me. We had quite a romantic meeting. I found him eating his luncheon by the roadside, and insisted on his sharing it with me. I give him “sittings” every afternoon in an adorable bungalow that he’s fitted up as a workshop. He explained to me, in the beginning, that he might have picked out some woman of his acquaintance and studied her, but that he considered it wouldn’t be honorable--that with a hired model he felt absolutely independent. I really can’t endure him, but I’ve resolved to stick this out to the bitter end. I feel like a little wiggly bug pinned to a piece of cardboard, with a pair of sharp, cold, gray eyes analyzing every wiggle. This Ormsby is shockingly lacking in _savoir faire_, and so far as flirting is concerned, he doesn’t know the a, b, c’s of the game.