She told how she had been a clerk in The Fair and how she and another girl had got the idea from seeing articles in the Sunday papers. There was once a picture in the Tribune of a model posing in the nude before the local life class. This had taken her eye and she had consulted with the other girl as to whether they had not better try posing, too. Her friend, like herself, was still posing. She was coming to the dinner. Eugene listened entranced. It reminded him of how he was caught by the picture of Goose Island in the Chicago River, of the little tumble-down huts and upturned hulls of boats used for homes. He told her of that and of how he came, and it touched her fancy. She thought he was sentimental but nice--and then he was big, too, and she was so much smaller. "You play?" he asked, "don't you?" "Oh, just a little. But we haven't got a piano. I learned what I know by practising at the different studios." "Do you dance?" asked Eugene. "Yes, indeed," she replied. "I wish I did," he commented ruefully. "Why don't you? It's easy. You could learn in no time. I could teach you in a lesson." "I wish you would," he said persuasively. "It isn't hard," she went on, moving away from him. "I can show you the steps. They always begin with the waltz." She lifted her skirts and exposed her little feet. She explained what to do and how to do it. He tried it alone, but failed; so she got him to put his arm around her and placed her hand in his. "Now, follow me," she said. It was so delightful to find her in his arms! And she was apparently in no hurry to conclude the lesson, for she worked with him quite patiently, explaining the steps, stopping and correcting him, laughing at her mistakes and his. "You're getting it, though," she said, after they had turned around a few times. They had looked into each other's eyes a number of times and she gave him frank smiles in return for his. He thought of the time when she stood by him in the studio, looking over his shoulder. Surely, surely this gap of formalities might be bridged over at once if he tried if he had the courage. He pulled her a little closer and when they stopped he did not let go. "You're mighty sweet to me," he said with an effort. "No, I'm just good natured," she laughed, not endeavoring to break away. He became emotionally tense, as always. She rather liked what seemed the superiority of his mood. It was different, stronger than was customary in the men she knew. "Do you like me?" he asked, looking at her. She studied his face and hair and eyes. "I don't know," she returned calmly. "Are you sure you don't?" There was another pause in which she looked almost mockingly at him and then, sobering, away at the hall door. "Yes, I think I do," she said. He picked her up in his arms. "You're as cute as a doll," he said and carried her to the red settee. She spent the rest of the rainy afternoon resting in his arms and enjoying his kisses. He was a new and peculiar kind of boy.