She looked at him with a strained, wistful expression as though begging
him to understand her:

"I couldn't remain at the theatre," she said. "I had little talent--no
chance except chances I would not tolerate; no companionship except what
I was unfitted for by education and inclination.... The men
were--impossible. There may have been girls I could have liked--but I
did not meet them. So, as I had to do something--and my years of
seclusion with mother had unfitted me for any business--for office work
or shop work--I thought that artists might care to employ me--might give
me--or let me see--be near--something of the gayer, brighter, more
pleasant and youthful side of life--"

She ceased, bent her head thoughtfully.

"You want--friends? Young ones--with intellects? You want to combine
these with a chance of making a decent living?"

"Yes." She looked up candidly: "I am simply starved for it. You must
believe that when you see what I have submitted to--gone through with in
your studio"--she blushed vividly--"in a--a desperate attempt to escape
the--the loneliness, the silence and isolation"--she raised her dark
eyes--"the isolation of the poor," she said. "You don't know what that
means."

After a moment she added, level-eyed: "For which there is supposed to be
but one outlet--if a girl is attractive."

He rose, walked to and fro for a few moments, then, halting: