“Would it surprise you to hear that I’ve done a stroke of business?”

“Yes, Mr. Mont.”

“Then I won’t tell you what it is. When you’ve done pouting, go on with that letter to my father about ‘Duet’: ‘We are sorry to say that in the present state of the trade we should not be justified in reprinting the dialogue between those two old blighters; we have already lost money by it!’ You must translate, of course. Now can we say something to cheer the old boy up? How about this? ‘When the French have recovered their wits, and the birds begin to sing—in short, when spring comes—we hope to reconsider the matter in the light of—of’—er—what, Miss Perren?”

“‘The experience we shall have gained.’ Shall I leave out about the French and the birds?”

“Excellent! ‘Yours faithfully, Danby and Winter.’ Don’t you think it was a scandalous piece of nepotism bringing the book here at all, Miss Perren?”

“What is ‘nepotism’?”

“Taking advantage of your son. He’s never made a sixpence by any of his books.”

“He’s a very distinguished writer, Mr. Mont.”

“And we pay for the distinction. Well, he’s a good old Bart. That’s all before lunch, and mind you have a good one. That girl’s figure wasn’t usual either, was it? She’s thin, but she stands up straight. There’s a question I always want to ask, Miss Perren: Why do modern girls walk in a curve with their heads poked forward? They can’t all be built like that.”

The secretary’s cheeks brightened.

“There IS a reason, Mr. Mont.”

“Good! What is it?”

The secretary’s cheeks continued to brighten. “I don’t really know whether I can—”

“Oh! sorry. I’ll ask my wife. Only she’s quite straight herself.”

“Well, Mr. Mont, it’s this, you see: They aren’t supposed to have anything be—behind, and, of course, they have, and they can’t get the proper effect unless they curve their chests in and poke their heads forward. It’s the fashion-plates and mannequins that do it.”

“I see,” said Michael; “thank you, Miss Perren; awfully good of you. It’s the limit, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I don’t hold with it, myself.”

“No, quite!”

The secretary lowered her eyelids and withdrew.

Michael sat down and drew a face on his blotting-paper. It was not Victorine’s…

Armed with the note to Aubrey Greene, Victorine had her usual lunch, a cup of coffee and a bit of heavy cake, and took the tube towards Chelsea. She had not succeeded, but the gentleman had been friendly and she felt cheered.

At the studio door was a young man inserting a key—very elegant in smoke-grey Harris tweeds, a sliding young man with no hat, beautifully brushed-back bright hair, and a soft voice.

“Model?” he said.

“Yes, sir, please. I have a note for you from Mr. Mont.”

“Michael? Come in.”

Victorine followed him in. It was ‘not half’ sea-green in there; a high room with rafters and a top light, and lots of pictures and drawings on the walls, and as if they had slipped off on to the floor. A picture on an easel of two ladies with their clothes sliding down troubled Victorine. She became conscious of the gentleman’s eyes, sea-green like the walls, sliding up and down her.

“Will you sit for anything?” he asked.

Victorine answered mechanically: “Yes, sir.”

“Do you mind taking your hat off?”

Victorine took off the toque, and shook out her hair.

“Ah!” said the gentleman. “I wonder.”

Victorine wondered what.

“Just sit down on the dais, will you?”

Victorine looked about her, uncertain. A smile seemed to fly up his forehead and over his slippery bright hair.

“This is your first shot, then?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All the better.” And he pointed to a small platform.

Victorine sat down on it in a black oak chair.

“You look cold.”

“Yes, sir.”

He went to a cupboard and returned with two small glasses of a brown fluid.

“Have a Grand Marnier?”

She noticed that he tossed his off in one gulp, and did the same. It was sweet, strong, very nice, and made her gasp.

“Take a cigarette.”

Victorine took one from a case he handed, and put it between her lips. He lit it. And again a smile slid up away over the top of his head.

“You draw it in,” he said. “Where were you born?”

“In Putney, sir.”

“That’s very interesting. Just sit still a minute. It’s not as bad as having a tooth out, but it takes longer. The great thing is to keep awake.”

“Yes, sir.”

He took a large piece of paper and a bit of dark stuff, and began to draw.

“Tell me,” he said, “Miss—”

“Collins, sir—Victorine Collins.” Some instinct made her give her maiden name. It seemed somehow more professional.

“Are you at large?” He paused, and again the smile slid up over his bright hair: “Or have you any other occupation?”

“Not at present, sir. I’m married, but nothing else.”

For some time after that the gentleman was silent. It was interesting to see him, taking a look, making a stroke on the paper, taking another look. Hundreds of looks, hundreds of strokes. At last he said: “All right! Now we’ll have a rest. Heaven sent you here, Miss Collins. Come and get warm.”

Victorine approached the fire.

“Do you know anything about expressionism?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, it means not troubling about the outside except in so far as it expresses the inside. Does that convey anything to you?”

“No, sir.”

“Quite! I think you said you’d sit for the—er—altogether?”

Victorine regarded the bright and sliding gentleman. She did not know what he meant, but she felt that he meant something out of the ordinary.

“Altogether what, sir?”

“Nude.”

“Oh!” She cast her eyes down, then raised them to the sliding clothes of the two ladies. “Like that?”

“No, I shouldn’t be treating you cubistically.”

A slow flush was burning out the sallow in her cheeks. She said slowly:

“Does it mean more money?”

“Yes, half as much again—more perhaps. I don’t want you to if you’d rather not. You can think it over and let me know next time.”

She raised her eyes again, and said: “Thank you, sir.”

“Righto! Only please don’t ‘sir’ me.”

Victorine smiled. It was the first time she had achieved this functional disturbance, and it seemed to have a strange effect. He said hurriedly: “By George! When you smile, Miss Collins, I see you impressionistically. If you’ve rested, sit up there again.”

Victorine went back.

The gentleman took a fresh piece of paper.

“Can you think of anything that will keep you smiling?”

She shook her head. That was a fact.

“Nothing comic at all? I suppose you’re not in love with your husband, for instance?”

“Oh! yes.”

“Well, try that.”

Victorine tried that, but she could only see Tony selling his balloons.

“That won’t do,” said the gentleman. “Don’t think of him! Did you ever see ‘L’apres midi d’un Faune’?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, I’ve got an idea. ‘L’apres midi d’une Dryade.’ About the nude you really needn’t mind. It’s quite impersonal. Think of art, and fifteen bob a day. Shades of Nijinsky, I see the whole thing!”

All the time that he was talking his eyes were sliding off and on to her, and his pencil off and on to the paper. A sort of infection began to ferment within Victorine. Fifteen shillings a day! Blue butterflies!

There was a profound silence. His eyes and hand slid off and on. A faint smile had come on Victorine’s face—she was adding up the money she might earn.

At last his eyes and hand ceased moving, and he stood looking at the paper.

“That’s all for today, Miss Collins. I’ve got to think it out. Will you give me your address?”

Victorine thought rapidly.

“Please, sir, will you write to me at the post office. I don’t want my husband to know that I’m—I’m—”

“Affiliated to art? Well! Name of post office?”