He saw a tall, amply-built girl, with a slackened frame whose muscles had forgotten how to play their part properly in holding the structure firm. Her face was flaccid. Under the large but dull eyes, there was a bloodless puffiness. Discontent sat enthroned at the corners of the sensitive mouth. A faint, reddish eruption disfigured her chin. Her two strong assets, beautifully even teeth and a wealth of soft, fine hair, failed wholly to save her from being a flatly repellent woman. Dr. Strong noted further that her hands were incessantly uneasy, and that she ate little and without interest. Also she seemed, in a sullen way, shy. Yet, despite all of these drawbacks, there was a pathetic suggestion of inherent fineness about her; of qualities become decadent through disuse; a charm that should have been, thwarted and perverted by a slovenly habit of life. Dr. Strong set her down as a woman at war with herself, and therefore with her world. After dinner Mr. and Mrs. Clyde slipped away to see the children. The artist followed Dr. Strong, to whom he had taken a liking, as most men did, into the small lounging-room, where he lighted a cigar. “Too bad about that Miss Ennis, isn’t it?” said Taylor abruptly. His companion looked at him interrogatively. “Such a mess,” he continued. “Such a ruin. Yet so much left that isn’t ruined. That face would be worth a lot to me for the ‘Poet’s Cycle of the Months’ that I’m painting now. What a _November_ she’d make; ‘November, the withered mourner of glories dead and gone.’ Only I suppose she’d resent being asked to sit.” “Illusions are the last assets that a woman loses,” agreed Dr. Strong. “To think,” pursued the painter, “of what her Maker meant her to be, and of how she has belied it! She’s essentially and fundamentally a beautiful woman; that is why I want her for a model.” ‘“In the structure of her face, perhaps—” “Yes; and all through. Look at the set of her shoulders, and the lines of her when she walks. Nothing jerry-built about her! She’s got the contours of a goddess and the finish of a mud-pie. It’s maddening.” “More maddening from the physician’s point of view than from the artist’s. For the physician knows how needless it all is.” “Is she your patient?” “If she were I’d be ashamed to admit it. Give me military authority and a year’s time and if I couldn’t fix her so that she’d be proud to pose for your picture—Good Heavens!” From behind the drapery of the passageway appeared Louise Ennis. She took two steps toward the two men and threw out her hands in an appeal which was almost grotesque. “Is it true?” she cried, turning from one to the other. “Tell me, is it really true?” “My dear young lady,” groaned Taylor, “what can I say to palliate my unpard—” “Nevermind that! I don’t care. I don’t care anything about it. It’s my own fault. I stopped and listened. I couldn’t help it. It means so much to me. You can’t know. No man can understand. Is it true that I—that my face—”