couldn't help, and the recital of which would do neither of them any
good. Of stories of models' lives he was tired, satiated. There was no
use encouraging her to family revelations; an easy, pleasant footing was
far more amusing to maintain. The other hinted of intimacy; and that he
had never tolerated in his employees.

Yet, looking now across the table at her, a not unkind curiosity began
to prod him. He could easily have left matters where they were,
maintained the _status quo_ indefinitely--or as long as he needed her
services.

"Outlets are necessary," he said, cautiously. "Otherwise we go to the
bow-wows."

"Or--die."

"What?" sharply.

She looked up without a trace of self-consciousness or the least hint of
the dramatic:

"I would die unless I had an outlet. This is almost one. At least it
gives me something to do with my life."

"Posing?"

"Yes."

"I don't quite understand you."