When he looked up again, for an instant he thought her skin even whiter than it had been; perhaps not, for, except the vivid lips and a carnation tint in the cheeks, the snowy beauty of her face and neck had already preoccupied him. "Do you pose undraped?" he repeated, interested. "I--expect to do--what is--required of--models." "Sensible," he commented, noting the detail in his book. "Now, Miss West, for whom have you recently posed?" And, as she made no reply, he looked up amiably, balancing his pencil in his hand and repeating the question. "Is it necessary to--tell you?" "Not at all. One usually asks that question, probably because you models are always so everlastingly anxious to tell us--particularly when the men for whom you have posed are more famous than the poor devil who offers you an engagement." There was something very good humoured in his smile, and she strove to smile, too, but her calmness was now all forced, and her heart was beating very fast, and her black-gloved fingers were closing and doubling till the hands that rested on the arms of the gilded antique chair lay tightly clenched. He was leisurely writing in his note book under her name: "Height, medium; eyes, a dark brown; hair, thick, lustrous, and brown; head, unusually beautiful; throat and neck, perfect--" He stopped writing and lifted his eyes: "How much of your time is taken ahead, I wonder?" "What?" "How many engagements have you? Is your time all cut up--as I fancy it is?" "N-no." "Could you give me what time I might require?" "I think so." "What I mean, Miss West, is this: suppose that your figure is what I have an idea it is; could you give me a lot of time ahead?" She remained silent so long that he had started to write, "probably unreliable," under his notes; but, as his pencil began to move, her lips unclosed with, a low, breathless sound that became a ghost of a voice: "I will do what you require of me. I meant to answer." "Do you mean that you are in a position to make a time contract with me?--provided you prove to be what I need?" She nodded uncertainly. "I'm beginning the ceiling, lunettes, and panels for the Byzantine Theatre," he added, sternly stroking his short mustache, "and under those circumstances I suppose you know what a contract between us means." She nodded again, but in her eyes was bewilderment, and in her heart, fear. "Yes," she managed to say, "I think I understand." "Very well. I merely want to say that a model threw me down hard in the very middle of the Bimmington's ball-room. Max Schindler put on a show, and she put for the spot-light. She'd better stay put," he added grimly: "she'll never have another chance in your guild." Then the frown vanished, and the exceedingly engaging smile glimmered in his eyes: "You wouldn't do such a thing as that to me," he added; "would you, Miss West?" "Oh, no," she replied, not clearly comprehending the enormity of the Schindler recruit's behaviour.