“And now you're sculping it. I see.” He raised himself to peer across at the windows where the blithe figures danced, tiny mænads of the gutter, Bacchæ of the asphalt. “But I don't see why on earth you want me. Do you think you could make _me_ happy?” “I shouldn't try.” “Hopeless job, you think? As a sculptor you ought to be a better judge of character. You ought to pierce through the externals and perceive with your artistic eye that beneath this austere mask I'm as merry a little cricket as ever had his chirp smothered by the slings and arrows of outrageous Fortune.” It was then that she twinkled at him, and the twinkle grew into a laugh, such golden laughter as brightened life to the limits of its farthest echo. Cyrus had the feeling that the gray April sky had momentarily opened up and sent down a sun-ray to illumine the proceedings. “How wonderfully you mix them!” she cried. “Shall I sculp you in cap and bells?” “Why should I let you sculp meat all?” She stopped laughing abruptly and looked up at him with wondering eyes and parted lips, drooping just the tiniest bit at the corners. “Everybody does,” she said. At once he understood why everybody did that or anything else she wished. “All right,” he yielded. “What am I to sit for?” “Fifty cents an hour.” Then the Bonnie Lassie got her second surprise from him. His face changed abruptly. An almost animal eagerness shone in his eyes. “Fif-fif-fif--” he began, then recovered himself. “Pardon my performing like a deranged steam-whistle, but do I understand that you offer to pay me for sitting about doing nothing while you work? Did all those cheerful dancers in the window collect pay at that rate?” “Some of them did. Others are my friends.” “Ah, you draw social distinctions, I perceive.” “I think we needn't fence,” said the girl spiritedly. “When I came to you I thought you were of Our Square. If you will tell me just what variety of masquerader you are, we shall get on faster.” “Do you think I don't belong quite as much to Our Square as you do?” “Oh, I! This is my workshop. This is my life. But you--I should have suspected you from the first word you spoke. What are you? Don't tell me that you are here Settlementing or Sociologizing or Improving the Condition of Somebody Else! Because I really do need your face,” she concluded with convincing earnestness. “It's yours at fifty cents an hour.” “And you're not an Improver?” “Absolutely not. Do I look as if I'd improved myself?” “You wouldn't do at all for my present purpose, improved,” she observed. “Please don't forget that. When can you come to me?” “Any time.” “Haven't you anything else to do?” “Nothing but look out for odd jobs. That's why I'm so grateful for regular employment.” “But this isn't regular employment.” His face fell. “It's most irregular, and there's very little of it.” “Oh, well, it's fifty cents an hour. And that's more than I've ever earned in my life, Miss Sculptor.” “I am Miss Willard.”.