Between Friends

"Yes, it is."

"How?"

"Oh, I don't know. A girl usually loves the wrong man. To be poor

is always bad enough, but to be in love, too, is really very

dreadful. It usually finishes us--you know."

"Are you in love?" he inquired, managing to repress his amusement.

"I could be. I know that much." She went to the sink, turned on the

water, washed her hands, and stood with dripping fingers looking

about for a towel.

"I'll get you one," he said. When he brought it, she laughed and

held out her hands to be dried.

"Do you think you are a Sultana?" he inquired, draping the towel

across her outstretched arms and leaving it there.

"I thought perhaps you'd dry them," she said sweetly.

"Not in the business," he remarked; and lighted his pipe.

Her hands were her particular beauty, soft and snowy. She was much

in demand among painters, and had posed many times for pictures of

the Virgin, her hands usually resting against her breast.

Now she bestowed great care upon them, thoroughly drying each

separate, slender finger. Then she pushed back the heavy masses of

her hair--"a miracle of silk and sunshine," as Quair had whispered

to her. That same hair, also, was very popular among painters.

It was her figure that fascinated sculptors.

"Are you ready?" grunted Drene. Work presently recommenced.

She was entirely accustomed to praise from men, for her general

attractiveness, for various separate features in what really was an

unusually lovely ensemble.

She was also accustomed to flattery, to importunity, to the ordinary

variety of masculine solicitation; to the revelation of genuine

feeling, too, in its various modes of expression--sentimental,

explosive, insinuating--the entire gamut.

She had remained, however, untouched; curious and amused, perhaps,

yet quite satisfied, so far, to be amused; and entirely content with

her own curiosity.

She coquetted when she thought it safe; learned many things she had

not suspected; was more cautious afterwards, but still, at

intervals, ventured to use her attractiveness as a natural lure, as

an excuse, as a reason, as a weapon, when the probable consequences

threatened no embarrassment or unpleasantness for her.

She was much liked, much admired, much attempted, and entirely

untempted.

When the Make-up Club gave its annual play depicting the foibles of

artists and writers in the public eye, Cecile White was always cast

for a role which included singing and dancing.

On and off for the last year or two she had posed for Drene, had

dropped into his studio to lounge about when he had no need of her

professionally, and when she had half an hour of idleness

confronting her.