Between Friends

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.

As she stood there now on the model stand, gazing dreamily from his busy hands to his lean, intent features, it occurred to her that this day had not been a sample of their usual humdrum relations. From the very beginning of their business relations he had remained merely her employer, self-centered, darkly absorbed in his work, or, when not working, bored and often yawning. She had never come to know him any better than when she first laid eyes on him.

Always she had been a little interested in him, a little afraid, sometimes venturing an innocent audacity, out of sheer curiosity concerning the effect on him. But never had she succeeded in stirring him to any expression of personal feeling in regard to herself, one way or the other.

Probably he had no personal feeling concerning her. It seemed odd to her; model and master thrown alone together, day after day, usually became friends in some degree. But there had been nothing at all of camaraderie in their relationship, only a colorless, professional sans-gene, the informality of intimacy without the kindly essence of personal interest on his part.

He paid her wages promptly; said good morning when she came, and good night when she went; answered her questions when she asked them seriously; relapsed into indifference or into a lazy and not too civil badinage when she provoked him to it; and that was all.

He never complimented her, never praised her; yet he must have thought her a good model, or he would not have continued to send for her.

“Do you think me pretty?” she had asked one day, saucily invading one of his yawning silences.

“I think you’re pretty good,” he replied, “as a model. You’d be quite perfect if you were also deaf and dumb.”

That had been nearly a year ago. She thought of it now, a slight heat in her cheeks as she remembered the snub, and her almost childish amazement, and the hurt and offended silence which lasted all that morning, but which, if he noticed at all, was doubtless entirely gratifying to him.

“May I rest?”

“If it’s necessary.”

She sprang lightly to the floor walked around behind him, and stood looking at his work.

“Do you want to know my opinion?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, with unexpected urbanity; “if you are clever enough to have an opinion. What is it?”

She said, looking at the wax figure of herself and speaking with deliberation:

“In the last hour you have made out of a rather commonplace study an entirely spontaneous and charming creation.”

“What!” he exclaimed, his face reddening with pleasure at her opinion, and with surprise at her mode of expressing it.

“It’s quite true. That dancing figure is wholly charming. It is no study; it is pure creation.”

He knew it; was a little thrilled that she, representing to him an average and mediocre public, should recognize it so intelligently.

“As though,” she continued, “you had laid aside childish things.”

“What?” he asked, surprised again at the authority of the expression.

“Academic precision and the respectable excellencies of-the-usual;—you have put away childish things and become a man.”

“Where did you hear that?” he said bluntly.

“I heard it when I said it. You know, Mr. Drene, I am not wholly uneducated, although your amiable question insinuates as much.”

“I’m not unamiable. Only I didn’t suppose—”

“Oh, you never have supposed anything concerning me. So why are you surprised when I express myself with fragmentary intelligence?”

“I’m sorry—”

“Listen to me. I’m not afraid of you any more. I’ve been afraid for two years. Now, I’m not. Your study is masterly. I know it. You know it. You didn’t know I knew it; you didn’t know I knew anything. And you didn’t care.”

She sat down on the sofa, facing him with a breathless smile.

“You don’t care what I think, what I am, what interests I may have, what intellect, what of human desire, hope, fear, ambition animates me; do you? You don’t care whether I am ignorant or educated, bad or good, ill or well—as long as it does not affect my posing for you; whether I am happy or unhappy, whether I—”

“For Heaven’s sake—”

“But you don’t care!… Do you?”

He was silent; he stood looking at her in a stupid sort of way.

After a moment or two she rose, picked up her hat, went to the glass and pinned it on, then strolled slowly back, drawing on her gloves.

“It’s five o’clock, you know, Drene.”

“Yes, certainly.”

“Do you want me to-morrow?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

“You are not offended?”

He did not answer. She came up to him and repeated the question in a childishly anxious voice that was a trifle too humble. And looking down into her eyes he saw a gleam of pure mischief in them.

“You little villain!” he said; and caught her wrists. “A lot you care whether I am offended!”

She looked away from him, turning her profile. Her expression was inscrutable. After a silence he dropped her wrists with a vague laugh.

“You should have let me alone,” he said.

“‘The woman tempted me,’” she repeated, still looking away from him. He said nothing.

“Good night,” she nodded, and turned toward the door.