"As for holidays," said Barbara, "I have a new model, Wilmot; a
wonderful person, and that means _work_. I may stay in town right
through the summer."

Allen sighed loudly, and on purpose. "You make me tired," he said.
"Bring a lump of clay down to Newport, and _I'll_ sit for you."

Barbara affected to study his face critically. Then she shook her head.
"My new model," she explained, "has got the face of a fallen angel. I
think I can do it. And if I can do it, why, I see all the good things of
sculping coming my way."

"An ordinary every-day angel face wouldn't do?" her guest insinuated. "I
could go out and fall."

"I don't doubt it!" she returned somewhat crisply. "I feel very sure
that you could disgrace yourself without trouble and even with relish.
But it wouldn't show in your face. You see, you couldn't really
be wicked."

"Couldn't I though!" exclaimed the young man. "A lot you know about it.
I could eat you up for one thing without turning a hair, and that would
be wicked."

"It wouldn't," Barbara laughed. "It would be greedy. My new model has
the face of a man who has never stopped at anything that has stood in
his way. I fancy that he has murders up his sleeve and every other crime
in the calendar. And sometimes memory of them brings the most wonderful
look of sorrow and remorse into his face, and at the same time he looks