Being fair, the young man colored easily. When he colored, the three inches of scar across his temple which he had brought home from the war became a streak of red. It was one of the reasons why Jennie, who was sensitive to the physical, didn’t like to look at him. Not to look at him, she pretended to arrange the folds of her peplum, which kept her gaze downward. But had she looked, she would have seen that he was hurt. His face was of the honest, sympathetic cast that quickly reflects the wounding of the feelings. If men had prototypes in dogs, Bob Collingham’s would have been the mastiff or the St. Bernard—big, strong, devoted, slow to wrath, and with an almost comic humiliation at sound of a harsh word. Though there was no harsh word in Jennie’s case, Bob was sure he detected a harsh thought. It hurt him the more for the reason that she was a model, while he had advantages of social consideration. Little as he would have been discourteous to a girl of his own station, he would have thought it unworthy of a cad to profit by Jennie’s helplessness in a place like a studio. "I hope you didn’t think I was trying to be fresh." Now that she felt herself secured by distance, she laughed again. "I didn’t think anything at all. I just—just don’t like people touching me." "Not any people?" "Not any I need speak about to you." "Why me?" "Because I hardly know you." "You could know me better if you wanted to." "Oh, I could know lots of people better if I wanted to." "And you don’t want to—for what reason?" "It isn’t always a reason. Sometimes it’s just an instinct." "And which is it in my case?" "In your case, it doesn’t have to be discussed. I shouldn’t know you, anyhow. We’re like creatures in different—what do they call it?—not spheres—elements, isn’t it?—We’re like creatures in different elements—a bird and a fish—that don’t get a point of contact." "You mayn’t _see_ the points of contact—" "And if I don’t see them they’re not there." She turned toward Wray, who was coming back in their direction, addressing him in the idiom she heard among young native-born Americans, and which accorded best with her position in the studio. "Oh, Mr. Wray, could you let me off posing any more to-day? This friend guy of yours has got me all on springs." "Clear out, friend guy. Can’t you see you’re in the way?" She continued to take the tone she was trying to make second nature, since it was not first. "That’s something he wouldn’t notice if a car was running over him. But please let me go. There’s a quarter of an hour left on to-day, but I’ll make it up some other time." She moved down the studio with as much seeming unconcern as if she didn’t know that two pairs of eyes were following her. Picking her way between old English chairs with canvases stacked against their legs, past dusty brocade hangings, and beneath an occasional plaster cast lifted on a pedestal, she went out at the model’s exit without a glance behind her.