“Oh, yes. I have thought of it,” she admitted. “And you conclude it to be a rather dreadful business?” “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.