appeared to think that she had invited him to converse. He leaned back
as far as he could in the deal chair. His expression was no longer that
which had struck Barbara so hard in the imagination, but one of easy and
alert affability. He looked at her when he spoke, or when she spoke, but
casually and without offence. Whatever feelings surged in him were for
the moment carefully controlled and put aside. In his manner was neither
obtrusiveness nor servility, only a kind of well-schooled ease and
directness. In short, he behaved and spoke like a gentleman.

"You're the first person I ever sat for," he said, "who hasn't asked me
how I lost my legs."

Barbara, regarding the rough blocking of his head which she had made,
smiled amiably. That first impression of him, still vivid and lucid in
her mind, appeared already, almost of its own accord, to have registered
itself in the lump of clay. And she could not but feel that she had laid
the groundwork of a masterpiece. If the beggar wished to converse, she
would converse--anything to keep him in the mood for returning to pose
as often as she should have need of him. And so, though entirely
absorbed by the face which she had found, and at the moment almost
uncharitably indifferent to the legs which he had lost, she raised her
eyes to him, still smiling, and said:

"It wasn't from want of interest, I assure you. I'm sorry you lost them,
and I should like to know how it happened."

"Bravely spoken," said the beggar.

"I have been told," said Barbara, "that you are a great power in the
East Side, a sort of overlord."