"You know," he said, "models are not supposed to come here unless sent for. It isn't done in this building." He pointed to a black and white sign on his door which bore the words: "No Admittance." "I am very sorry. I didn't understand--" "Oh, it's all right; only, I don't see how you got up here at all. Didn't the elevator boy question you? It's his business." "I didn't come up on the elevator." "You didn't _walk_ up!" "Yes." "Twelve stories!" "Both elevators happened to be in service. Besides, I was not quite certain that models were expected to use the elevators." "Good Lord!" he exclaimed, "you must have wanted an engagement pretty badly." "Yes, I did." He stared: "I suppose you do, still," "If you would care to try me." "I'll take your name and address, anyhow. Twelve flights! For the love of--oh, come in anyway and rest." It was dusky in the private hallway through which he preceded her, but there was light enough in the great studio. Through the vast sheets of glass fleecy clouds showed blue sky between. The morning was clearing. He went over to an ornate Louis XV table, picked up a note book, motioned her to be seated, dropped into a chair himself, and began to sharpen a pencil. As yet he had scarcely glanced at her, and now, while he leisurely shaved the cedar and scraped the lead to a point, he absent-mindedly and good-humouredly admonished her: "You models have your own guild, your club, your regular routine, and it would make it much easier for us if you'd all register and quietly wait until we send for you. [Illustration: "There was a long, brisk, decisive ring at the door."] "You see we painters know what we want and we know where to apply for it. But if you all go wandering over studio buildings in search of engagements, we won't have any leisure to employ you because it will take all our time to answer the bell. And it will end by our not answering it at all. And that's why it is fit and proper for good little models to remain _chez eux_." He had achieved a point to his pencil. Now he opened his model book, looked up at her with his absent smile, and remained looking. "Aren't you going to remove your veil?" "Oh--I beg your pardon!" Slender gloved fingers flew up, were nervously busy a moment. She removed her veil and sat as though awaiting his comment. None came. After a moment's pause she said: "Did you wish--my name and address?" He nodded, still looking intently at her. "Miss West," she said, calmly. He wrote it down. "Is that all? Just 'Miss West'?" "Valerie West--if that is custom--necessary." He wrote "Valerie West"; and, as she gave it to him, he noted her address. "Head and shoulders?" he asked, quietly. "Yes," very confidently. "Figure?" "Yes,"--less confidently. "Draped or undraped?"