“Sorry to seem to disparage you, who deserve a kinder fate,” Seff was saying. “You can see at a glance that your complexion and hair are too indefinite to make for contrast with these _crêpes_. Perhaps one day, for some other purpose----” His voice ebbed as does an outgoing tide. His attention veered to the girl next in line, the most striking of the natural brunettes from the outer room. “My, my, but you are a luscious thing--a lovely, luscious thing!” Seff’s delicate finger-tips touched together sensitively. “I wish you to understand that, personally, I like you red-blooded, dark ones--prefer you, in fact. But you are too colorful for our present need. You’d make this flesh pink look ashen. Awfully sorry, my dear. A thousand thanks for the look at you. As for you, lithe gazelle----” The manner of his preface somehow foretold the fate of the tall, willowy girl with nut-brown hair, fleeting flushes and eyes like limpid pools, whom he next considered. Dolores’ heart ached for the three thus gently dismissed. She knew just how they felt. She would be the fourth to go. Certainly, if they could not qualify, she should not feel disappointment or offense. Except that her situation was so desperate---- “Go over to my friend Feldtbaum,” Seff continued. “See if he can’t find a place for you in one of his roof shows. He wants just the effect of spotless virtue which you give out--likes it for punch. Somehow, for my purpose, you overlook the part. And the next girl--she won’t do at all.” His voice had sharpened. Dolores almost leapt from the group, both hands hard pressed against her heart to still its beat. “Not you,” said the artist-merchant. “I’m speaking to the fourth of you. Pretty face, young, innocent enough, but too much bust--more like a matron. What I want to-day is--how shall I express it?--the spirit of modest allurement. You understand, each of you four, why you won’t do? I am so sorry. I sincerely thank you. Good morning.” Dazed was she who watched them go. Her one definite thought was of the gas meter. How had it known when to click off last night--how been even more sure than she that the advertisement had been written for her? “What am I to call you?” asked Vincent Seff when they were alone. “Dolores Trent is my name, sir.” “Dolores? A sad little name. And you look to be a sad little dame, sad and mysterious. That’s what gets me and all the rest--mystery. Tell me--” his eyes lifted quizzically--“was it your own idea to carry that symbol?” “You mean this--this nectarine? An old friend gave it to me as I was leaving home.” Dolores realized with negligent surprise that the fruiterer’s good-by gift was still clasped in one of her hands. “A real nectarine, is it? I supposed it was artificial--meant to be sort of emblematic--smooth, cool, not overly ripe, yet with suggestions of pungency like, for instance, yourself. That was too much to expect, eh?” “Yes, sir, it was,” she admitted.