As she stood there now on the model stand, gazing dreamily from his busy hands to his lean, intent features, it occurred to her that this day had not been a sample of their usual humdrum relations. From the very beginning of their business relations he had remained merely her employer, self-centered, darkly absorbed in his work, or, when not working, bored and often yawning. She had never come to know him any better than when she first laid eyes on him. Always she had been a little interested in him, a little afraid, sometimes venturing an innocent audacity, out of sheer curiosity concerning the effect on him. But never had she succeeded in stirring him to any expression of personal feeling in regard to herself, one way or the other. Probably he had no personal feeling concerning her. It seemed odd to her; model and master thrown alone together, day after day, usually became friends in some degree. But there had been nothing at all of camaraderie in their relationship, only a colorless, professional sans-gene, the informality of intimacy without the kindly essence of personal interest on his part. He paid her wages promptly; said good morning when she came, and good night when she went; answered her questions when she asked them seriously; relapsed into indifference or into a lazy and not too civil badinage when she provoked him to it; and that was all. He never complimented her, never praised her; yet he must have thought her a good model, or he would not have continued to send for her. “Do you think me pretty?” she had asked one day, saucily invading one of his yawning silences. “I think you’re pretty good,” he replied, “as a model. You’d be quite perfect if you were also deaf and dumb.” That had been nearly a year ago. She thought of it now, a slight heat in her cheeks as she remembered the snub, and her almost childish amazement, and the hurt and offended silence which lasted all that morning, but which, if he noticed at all, was doubtless entirely gratifying to him. “May I rest?” “If it’s necessary.” She sprang lightly to the floor walked around behind him, and stood looking at his work. “Do you want to know my opinion?” she asked. “Yes,” he said, with unexpected urbanity; “if you are clever enough to have an opinion. What is it?” She said, looking at the wax figure of herself and speaking with deliberation: “In the last hour you have made out of a rather commonplace study an entirely spontaneous and charming creation.” “What!” he exclaimed, his face reddening with pleasure at her opinion, and with surprise at her mode of expressing it. “It’s quite true. That dancing figure is wholly charming. It is no study; it is pure creation.” He knew it; was a little thrilled that she, representing to him an average and mediocre public, should recognize it so intelligently. “As though,” she continued, “you had laid aside childish things.” “What?” he asked, surprised again at the authority of the expression.