“It was his own notion,” said the girl in a rush of words. “One night I was sitting at the piano. He said there were lines in my face that he wanted. He asked me if I’d sit for him once. Then he had me come back again and again. I didn’t mind. I—I liked it. It was the first time any one had ever seen anything to admire about me since I was a child. Oh, and one day he said: ‘Miss Darcy, you must have been a beautiful child.’” “Were you?” asked Gloria. From another pocket Darcy took a small photograph holder. “Exhibit B,” she said, passing it to the other. It showed the head and shoulders of an eleven-year-old girl. “It’s charming,” said Gloria, and meant it. “That’s the way I ought to look now, only more so, Holcomb said. He said I was a spoilt job.” “Pig!” “Oh, no. He didn’t mean it that way. He just blurted it out as if he was sorry about it. He seemed to think that I was a waste of good material and—and he was quite peeved about it and kept swearing under his breath while he was drawing me.” “There I’m with him,” declared Gloria vigorously. “I hate waste. It’s in my Yankee blood, I suppose. And a wasted human being—that’s a sort of practical blasphemy, according to my religion.” Darcy caught the inference. “Made in the image,” she said quickly. “But what am _I_ made in the image of!” “What happened to change you from this?” Gloria held up Exhibit B. “Well, I had an illness when I was thirteen. And about then we lost our money. And my parents died a little while after. And I never seemed to get back much life or spirit or ambition or digestion or anything.” “Can’t get hold of your own boot-straps?” queried the other suggestingly. “Haven’t got the lifting power if I did,” answered the girl. She picked nervously at her raveled and seedy sleeve. “Lee said he believed I could look like that—the way he made me look in the picture, you know—if only some one who knew could tell me how to go about it. D’ you think maybe—p’raps—it might be just partly possible?” Once more Gloria compared Exhibit A with Exhibit B, and then both with the original. “I do,” she pronounced with fitting solemnity. “Oh-h-h-h!” breathed Darcy in a long-drawn, ecstatic sigh. “At least partly possible. It’s worth the trial, in any case. Darcy,” said Miss Greene incisively, “I’m going to take you in hand, myself.” “Oh, Gloria! If you would! I’ll love you forever for it.” “You won’t. On the contrary, you’ll probably hate me poisonously before it’s half over.” “For helping me to be something and look like something?” protested the girl incredulously. “How could I be anything but the most grateful—” “Wait and see,” interrupted the oracle. “We’re going to begin our little magic process right now. Presto—pass! You’re a lay figure.” “A what?” faltered Darcy. “A lay figure. Act accordingly.” “What does a lay figure do, please?” “It doesn’t. It’s dead. It’s dumb. Don’t talk. You distract my mind.”