"It isn’t a question of sense, Jennie; it’s one of business. If you want to be a model, you must _be_ a model and meet the demands of the market." She wore the cheap linen suit that had been her best last summer, and the corresponding hat; but her beauty being of the type which subordinates externals to itself, she was more than adorable; she was elegant. With tears still rolling down her cheeks, she pointed at the sketch Wray held in his hand as he stood before her at a distance. "Do you know what my father would do if he thought I was going to be painted like that? He’d turn me out of doors." Wray tossed the sketch on the table. "Then, Jennie, there’s no use talking of it any more. You’re not that kind of a model, and it’s that kind of a model I’m looking for." "I’m the kind of model you were looking for when you put that advertisement in the paper nearly a year ago. I answered it because you said a pretty girl, not a professional—" "Yes; that was a year ago. That’s what I wanted then. But now it’s something else. It doesn’t follow that because you’re satisfied with an egg for breakfast, that an egg will be enough for every meal all the rest of your life." She looked up reproachfully. "Yes; all the rest of your life! That’s the way you talk. Nothing will ever be enough for you all the rest of your life." "No, Jennie; nothing—not as far as I see now." "And yet you expect me to stake everything—" "You must choose your words there, Jennie. I don’t _expect_ you to do anything. There may have been a time when I hoped—but that’s all over. We won’t talk of it. You’ve made up your mind; I must make up mine. There’s nothing between us now but a question of business. I’m looking for a model who does this kind of thing, and it doesn’t suit you to serve my turn. Well, that settles it, doesn’t it? Our little account is paid up to date, and so—" She stumbled to her feet. The only form her resentment took was a trembling of the lip and the streaming of more tears. "But what can I _do_?" "Do you mean for a living?" As she nodded speechlessly, he smiled, with a faint shrug of the shoulders. "That’s not for me to decide, is it, Jennie? Once you’ve left me—" "I’m not leaving you. You’re driving me away." "Suppose we said that life was separating us? Wouldn’t that express it better? We’ve—we’ve liked each other. I’ve never made any secret of it on my side—have I, Jennie?—though you’re so terribly discreet on yours. And yet life—" "I’ve only been discreet about one thing." "But that one thing is the whole business." "And I wouldn’t be discreet about that if there was any other way." "There’s the way I’ve told you about." "Yes; and be left high and dry after two or three years, neither one thing nor the other." "Isn’t that looking pretty far ahead?"