Suddenly he knew. She was the little girl who posed for Tommy Lyons when he did his Mexican murals. Maria Martinez: Mrs. Lyons was very fond of her and treated her like a daughter. He’d been up at Lyons’ one day with Mary, trying to prevent her buying a picture from Tommy, and Maria had been posing with a jar on her shoulder. That was all. He was glad that he knew, though. “How is Teddy?” she was asking. “I never see him any more. I ask Revelita why he is never at home, but she says nothing about him. I cannot make her talk.” “Revelita? Who is that?” “She works for Meester Stuart. You know—Revelita. Teddy was much in love with her.” “No, he wasn’t,” said Blake angrily. “You’re crazy.” Maria stuck her nose up in the air. “You ask him,” she said. “Ask him about Revelita and see how he looks.” Slightly worried, Blake did not argue with her. He had an instinct about it: if he stopped talking about it perhaps he could forget. Maria waited for more conversation, and when it was not forthcoming she changed the subject. “I see you with Teddy all the time. Every afternoon, nearly, you pass the window when you go to play tennis. I am working every day now in the afternoon. Mr. Lyons is very nice, I think. Mrs. Lyons too, she is a nice lady. She says she will find work for me with the other artists when it is time for them to go away in the fall.” “That would be fine,” Blake said absently. Teddy had never even mentioned Revelita. “But my mother will not let me. Mr. Lyons she says is all right for me to work for, but all the other artists are too young, she says. My mother is very particular.” She paused sadly, and he said, “That’s too bad. That’s a shame.” “Yes, it is,” she sighed. “I must go back to the convent in the fall, she says.” “You too? That’s a shame.” “It is silly. My mother thinks that the artists might want me to take off my clothes. She has read about it. I do not want to go back to school.” “I know,” he said eagerly. “I know just how you feel.” “I could make so much money by my posing. It is not everyone who can pose. Mrs. Lyons says so. She says I am a good type. What does she mean by that? Does she mean that I am pretty? Blake, you are not listening.” “I am too,” he protested. “She means you’re strange-looking: your eyes are strange.” “Oh, no! You mean—” her voice was hurt “you mean I am ugly. I know!” “No, no. You’re pretty.” He blurted it out, then blushed. “Oh. Well, my mother thinks that artists are bad and always make love to models. It is not true. Mr. Lyons does not make love to me.” “Of course he doesn’t. People don’t make love.” He hit the railroad tracks with a great bump, and slowed down. “I say, hasn’t it been ten minutes?” he asked, uneasily. He hoped that he could go back. “Not yet surely. Are you afraid? It is nothing to you, is it? Must you go home?” “No, no.” He speeded up again. It didn’t matter: he couldn’t ask Teddy about it anyway. There must be some mistake. Revelita? No. It was a mistake.