"Dance," said Lewis.

Vi hesitated a moment and then danced, at first a little stiffly. But
her mind gradually concentrated on her movements; she began to catch the
impersonal working atmosphere of a model.

"Hold that!" cried Lewis, and, a second later: "No, that will never do.
You've stiffened. Try again."

Over and over Vi tried to catch the pose and keep it until, without a
word, she crossed the room, threw herself on a couch, and began to cry
from pure exhaustion. When she had partly recovered, she suddenly awoke
to the fact that Lewis had not come to comfort her. She looked up. Lewis
was still sitting on the bench. He was filling a fresh pipe.

"Blown over?" he asked casually. "Come on. At it again."

At the end of another half-hour Vi gave up the struggle. She had caught
the pose twice, but she had been unable to hold it.

"I give it up," she wailed. "I'll simply never be able to _stay_ that
way."

"If you were a professional dancer," said Lewis, "I'd say 'nonsense' to
that. But you're not. I'm afraid it would take you weeks, perhaps
months, to get the stamina. Take it easy now while I make some tea."

"Tea in the morning!" said Vi. "I can't stand it. I'd rather have a
glass of port or something like that."