"It’s not looking farther ahead than a girl has to. It’s easy enough to talk. There _you’d_ be, able to walk off without a sign on you; whereas I’d have to lie down and die or—or find some one else." "Well, there’d be that possibility, wouldn’t there? They’re not so difficult for a pretty girl to find when—" She stamped her foot. "I hate you!" "Oh no, you don’t, Jennie. You love me—only, you won’t let yourself—" "And I never will—never—never—never! Not if I was starving in the streets—so help me God!" She was running toward the model’s exit when he called after her. "Then you leave me to work with another woman, Jennie—another woman sitting in your place—another woman—" When she threw him a despairing glance he snatched the sketch from the table and held it up to her. "Another woman—dressed like that!" But out on the stairs she paused. Anger was giving place to fear. It was, first of all, a fear of the other woman _dressed like that_, and then it was a fear not less agonizing of the loss of her six a week. Her six a week was all that stood between Jennie and the not very carefully veiled contempt of the family. In the testing to which the past half year had subjected them all, Jennie had not made very good. Six a week had been her measure. For obscure reasons which none of them could fathom, she had proved incapable of really lucrative work. She had tried to get employment with other artists who would leave her free for her hours with Wray, but she had failed. She had failed, too, in stores, factories, offices, and dressmaking establishments. Perhaps they saw she was only half hearted in her attempts; perhaps her air of helplessness told against her. "She was too much like a lady," had been one employer’s verdict, and possibly that was true. Whatever the reason, she seemed a creature not primarily meant to work, but to be utilized in some other way. The question was as to that way. "You’re splendid to love," little Gladys had whispered one day, when Jennie was crying to herself, and much in her recent experience confirmed this opinion. In her applications for something to do, it had more than once been made plain to her that money could be made by other means than by punching a time clock at seven. But she couldn’t retrace her steps and go back to Wray. She thought of it. She had chosen to descend by the stairs instead of by the lift which served the huge studio building, in order to give herself the chance of changing her mind. She went down a few steps and stood still, then a few more steps and stood still. If it had been only a question of the money she might have swallowed her pride and returned to throw herself at his feet. But there was the other woman—_dressed like that_! He had dared to invoke her. Well, let him invoke her. Let him paint her; let him do anything he liked. She, Jennie, would break her heart over it; but it would be easier to break her heart than go back.