"Another point," he continued; "you seem unable to move or rest
ungracefully. Few women are so built that an ungraceful motion is
impossible for them. You are one of the few. It's all a matter of
anatomy."

She remained silent, watching him curiously.

He said: "But the final clincher to your qualifications is that you are
intelligent. I have known pretty women," he added with, sarcasm, "who
were not what learned men would call precisely intelligent. But you are.
I showed you my sketch, indicated in a general way what I wanted, and
instinctively and intelligently you assumed the proper attitude. I
didn't have to take you by the chin and twist your head as though you
were a lay figure; I didn't have to pull you about and flex and bend and
twist you. You knew that I wanted you to look like some sort of an
ethereal immortality, deliciously relaxed, adrift in sunset clouds. And
you _were_ it--somehow or other."

She looked down, thoughtfully, nestling to the chin in the white wool
folds. A smile, almost imperceptible, curved her lips.

"You are making it very easy for me," she said.

"You make it easy for yourself."

"I was horribly afraid," she said thoughtfully.

"I have no doubt of it."