"I have arranged," he said significantly, "that she shall leave her
things down-stairs."

It seemed long before they heard him on the way back. He came slowly, as
though concerned not to hurry his model, as though to save her from the
disrespect of urgency. Even the natural noise of his feet on the bare
hallway was restrained. They listened for the sounds of her footsteps.
In the tense silence of the studio a pin-drop might have been
noticeable, a breath would have been audible; but they could not hear
her footsteps. He might have been followed by a spirit. Those feet of
hers must be very light feet, very quiet feet, the feet of the
well-bred.

He entered and advanced a few paces and turned as though to make way for
some one of far more importance than himself; and there walked forward
and stopped at a delicate distance from them all a woman, bareheaded,
ungloved, slender, straight, of middle height, and in life's middle
years--Rachel Truesdale.

She did not look at him or at them; she did not look at anything. It was
not her role to notice. She merely waited, perfectly composed, to be
told what to do. Her thoughts and emotions did not enter into the scene
at all; she was there solely as having been hired for work.

One privilege she had exercised unsparingly--not to offer herself for
this employment as becomingly dressed for it. She submitted herself to
be painted in austerest fidelity to nature, plainly dressed, her hair
parted and brushed severely back. Women, sometimes great women, have in
history, at the hour of their supreme tragedies, thus demeaned
themselves--for the hospital, for baptism, for the guillotine, for the