The pretexts were obvious, and, in the case of one of the young men, were backed by what might have been called professional necessity. One bare arm needed to be raised, the other to be lowered. One sandaled foot was too visible beneath the edge of the peplum, the other not visible enough. Adjustments called for readjustments, and readjustments for revisions of the scheme. What one young man approved of the other disallowed, to a running accompaniment of Miss Follett’s laughter. "Do go away," she implored, when Mr. Bob Collingham, with one hand beneath her elbow and the other at her finger-tips, tilted her arm at what seemed to him its loveliest angle. "Clear out, Bob," the artist seconded, in half-vexed good humor. "We’ll never get the pose with you here." "You’d never get anything if I went away, because Miss Follett wouldn’t work. Would you, Miss Follett?" The artist having gone in search of something at the far end of the studio, Miss Follett replied to Mr. Collingham alone. "I don’t know what I’d do if you went away; but if you stay I shall go frantic. If you touch me again I shall get up." "I’m not touching you again," he said, going on to bend her left arm ever so slightly, "because this is the same old time all along. The picture is all I care about." "But it’s Mr. Wray’s picture. It isn’t yours." "It will be if I buy it. I said I would if I liked it, and I sha’n’t like it unless I get it the way I want it." "You know you don’t mean to buy it." "I don’t mean to let anybody else buy it; you can lay down your life on that." There was so much earnestness in this declaration that Miss Follett laughed again. It was an easy, silvery laugh, pleasant to the ear, and not out of keeping with the medley of beautiful things round her. "Jennie’s value in a studio is more than that of a model," Wray had recently confided to his friend, Bob Collingham. "It’s as if she extracted the beauty from every bit of tapestry or bronze and turned it into animate life." "By doing nothing or standing still," Collingham had added, "she can pin your eyes on her as other girls can’t by frisking about. And when she moves—" An exclamation from Wray conveyed the fact that Jennie’s motion was beyond what either of these young experts in womanhood could possibly put into words. But that Jennie knew where to draw a certain kind of line became evident when, either by inadvertence or design, the back of Bob Collingham’s hand rubbed along her cheek. With a smile at once kindly and cold she put away his arm and rose. In the few yards she placed between them before she turned again, still with her kind, cold smile, there was rebuke without offense.