It was early the next afternoon. Breen and Nielsen were arguing in the former’s studio: a large unusually well furnished and attractively decorated West Fourteenth Street skylight room.

“Now, you clear out of here!” Breen was commanding. “She’ll be here right away.”

“Sure she won’t disappoint thee?” Nielsen mocked pleasantly.

“No, I saw her this morning and this noon for a moment, and she intends keeping her royal promise.”

“How about the rouge garment?”

“She hasn’t had time to alter it.”

“That won’t make any difference, of course,” Nielsen ventured in provoking tones.

“Go on! Clear out of here!” Breen repeated.

“You painters!” sang Nielsen, as he backed toward the door.

“We’re no worse than you fellows are,” Breen retorted. “Besides, this afternoon is no more and no less than an experiment in line with the contract of our triumvirate. Your inning will come, especially as you are writing a story, for which purpose—” “I know,” Nielsen admitted with cheerful slyness. “And I really need Erna to help me with it.”

“And Carstairs will have to contribute his share of the contract, unless he persists in that ‘count me out’ air of his.”

“Oh, he’ll come around, in his own way,” was Nielsen’s confident assurance. “I saw him this morning, by the way—the first time I’ve seen him at Landsmann’s in several days.”

“How is he?”

“Unusually cheery and affable.”

“He’ll recover from that foolishness.”

“I think so too, but—”

“Now, get out!” Breen commanded a third time. “You’ll be gossipping here forever.”

Nielsen took hold of the door knob, smiled in an aggravating manner, opened the door, bowed low and said in a droll tone: “Moral or unmoral, but—?”

Breen followed him, but Nielsen escaped, and the painter slammed the door. His mood changed instantly. He bustled around the studio, fixing this and rearranging that object and eventually looked about with satisfaction. He then approached a looking glass, readjusted his tie, smoothed his hair with his hand and otherwise subjected himself to a critical but self-satisfied examination, which, however, was cut short by a knock at the door. He hurried over to the door and opened it. “Come in!” he said cordially and stepped aside for Erna.

She was wearing her best clothes, which were very attractive on her. Unfortunately, the only red in the picture was a profusion of ribbons on her black hat and a neat tie—but fortunately, her red cheeks and lips were not missing. Altogether, Erna was a seductive apparition.

Certainly, this was Breen’s opinion too. “How charming you look, your Ladyship!” he exclaimed.

“Do I?” she retorted, smiling.

“Oh decidedly, decidedly,” and Breen bowed in anticipation of a pleasant afternoon. Bringing all of his courtesy to the surface, he helped Erna to remove her coat. She went over to the looking glass, laughed, cried: “You’ve got a glass too,” and took off her hat with careless ease.

“What do you mean?” demanded Breen, standing behind her and surveying her reflection with open admiration.

“Nothin’,” she returned rather impudently.

“A lovely girl that!” he added significantly.

“Think so?” she challenged.

“Decidedly,” he repeated.

She shrugged her shoulders a little and smiled at him in the glass. Breen’s interest grew. He tried to put his hands on her shoulders, by way of confidence, but Erna turned toward him with a quick supple movement. Like the accomplished artist she was, she said nothing, not even by way of reproach, but laughed again. He eyed her with still franker admiration.

“Well?” she questioned.

“Oh, I know,” he said, recollecting his rÔle, and went on evasively: “But you’re not wearing your red dress or very much red?”

“What difference does that make? Maybe you’d rather have me come some other time?”

“No, no! You stay right here, now that you’ve come. You’ll do just as well in that costume. The same Erna Vitek is inside it. But—er—”

“But what?”

“I won’t attempt a color sketch of you in that dress. There, there, forgive me—it’s very charming, my dear, but— Perhaps, I’ll just make a pencil sketch of you to-day. Artists ought to commence with pencil sketches anyhow, until the characters of their subjects have had time to properly enter their blood, so to speak. Which, of course, is all Greek to you. Do you object, madame?”

“No, do me any way you like,” she consented.

“Oh, if you feel that way about it,” he hinted audaciously. “Take care!” she warned.

Breen went over to the model throne and pretended to place the chair for her. He was sorry that he had had to suggest even a pencil sketch of her, but he was forced to attempt some part of their original agreement. What is more, he had practically cast away all thought of “studying” Erna, later to make his report before the triumvirate. She was too interesting and magnetic an individual to be used for such a childish purpose. “Come over here and sit down,” he requested calmly.

Giving herself an unexpected air of modesty, she complied, at the same time adding a prudish touch by fixing her skirt carefully as she sat down. Breen was puzzled, but drew up a chair, took a pencil and sketch book and seated himself. “I’m going ta draw you at close range,” he apologized. She smiled in encouragement.

Breen commenced drawing, very carelessly, it is true. Erna watched him with innocent eyes. “Do I pose right?” she asked at length.

“Yes,” he assured her.

She was silent.

A little later, she asked: “Do your models have to keep quiet?”

“Not at all! Chatter away!”

But she preferred to remain silent. To tell the truth, this was not Erna’s first experience as a sitter. She had posed for two or three other artists in the past: once as Carmen, another time as a madonna, and a third time for some allegorical effort concerning Spring. Breen continued to study her for the drawing. His mind, however, or that region wherein its desires lay, was more busy than his pencil. Ten minutes or so later, he stopped drawing and held the pad off, squinted one eye at Erna, then at the drawing and again at Erna.

“Do you like being winked at?” he asked.

“Depends upon who’s doin’ it,” she commented.

“Don’t you like me to do it?”

“I don’t know,” she replied enigmatically.

He got up from his chair and approached her.

“Bring the picture with you!” she requested.

Breen, however, once more tried to put his hands on her. She pushed back her chair, and in outraged tones commanded: “Mr. Breen!”

“I beg your pardon,” he said with well assumed candor, but he was irritated to a considerable degree. “I merely wanted to change your pose a bit.”

“Well, why didn’t you ask me to do it?” she complained, her innocent self again.

He returned to his chair without explaining.

“Am I all right now?” she asked.

“Pull your chair forward again.” “So?”

“That’ll do.”

Erna watched him as before, and Breen went on drawing. But his usually well balanced mind was ruffled. He tried to construct some other scheme. Erna had always been quite prone (after all, she was only a waitress) to permit occasional familiarity on his part at Landsmann’s. What made her play the prude away from home? Perhaps she was, at heart, like the rest of her class, nothing more than a narrow moralistic thing, and not the unmoral soul he had constantly given her credit for being. His disgust was supreme. On the contrary, he mused, she might only be playing a part. Admitting that Erna, in society, only held the position of waitress, still, she was a very shrewd girl. He must try some other attack, allowing her the credit she deserved. He had attempted flattery, pleasantry and not a little boldness. What should be his next step?

Eventually, the young artist tried bribery. Having finished his work, he presented it to Erna accompanied by a short but eloquently complimentary speech. The girl did not neglect to admire the drawing and to thank him for the present. His act, apparently, made no stronger impression on her. Later, he suggested and, with her consent, prepared and served some tea and biscuits. They were sitting at a small cosy table. About them, the atmosphere had spread a halo of warmth and intimacy. And Breen played host and admirer to the best of his accomplished ability. But Erna refused to respond any more than she had done earlier. She appeared grateful; she talked a good deal; and she seemed completely at ease with Breen and her surroundings. But she would not respond more than she had done. Breen’s disgust threatened to reach a climax.

There was a reason for Erna’s conduct. She, in her greed of heart, playing with Breen, as she had with Carstairs, the part of a watchful cat, had come to several conclusions. She disliked the artist’s long, angular figure, his sharp, shrewd face, and most of all, his cold, self-sympathetic eyes. And she disliked him personally even more. Without claiming any undue powers of discernment for Erna, one would surely have had to credit her with the possession of a strong feminine instinct. Her instinct had resented his attentions, for, behind them all, she had felt that he, as a gentleman, was shoving her down where she belonged. She was a waitress, but she was good looking enough and lots of fun for him—and much more in prospect. In a word, Breen had brought out the hard calculating side of her nature, and she had raised her guard against him.

Furthermore, Erna was in a bad humor when she came to Breen’s studio, her genial conduct notwithstanding. She had seen Jimmy that noon in the dining room, but he had spent all of his time talking fight with the customers. As though the fact that he was to turn to the ring to-morrow night would bring the world to an end! She would pay him for neglecting her. Besides, Mr. Nielsen had been approaching her. He had been asking her to “pose” for him too. Did he also want to take advantage of her? Still, there was something human inside of him. He had always acted a little differently from the others. As for Jimmy—

Breen interrupted her reflection. He reached across the table and tried to touch her hand. Erna’s face flushed with anger, and her hand came down upon his with a loud slap. Just as quickly, she recollected herself. “Excuse me!” she asked sullenly.

Breen, however, was through. He arose from his chair. This had been impudence beyond all impudence. And the man of success turned his back upon the waitress.

Erna likewise got up, leaving the sketch on the table. She did not offer a second apology. Instead, she drew on her coat, picked up her hat and walked over to the glass. Her face was crimson.

Breen was quite sorry. He came behind Erna and made several attempts to clear some momentary pangs of conscience. But Erna would not listen. He moved away, pride clouding his face.

Erna hurried toward the door. Breen followed her, offering one or two final excuses. But she refused to answer, and went out. Breen slammed the door behind her. Presently, he was busy pacing the studio in a vain endeavor to regain some of his composure.

Steps were to be heard coming along the hallway. The door was opened cautiously, and Nielsen’s head and shoulders appeared. And his caressing voice questioned: “Well, your Highness, what is your decision? Moral, unmoral or—?”

Breen faced about, swore a strong oath and commanded: “Get out of here!”

“But, dear Bainbridge—”

“Get out, you spy!” Breen continued angrily, and went toward the door.

“But I want to know your decision.”

“Moral, moral, a million times moral—she has degenerated—in fact, she hasn’t even degenerated. I wouldn’t do her the honor of saying so. She’s always been a narrow, conventional, contemptible little thing. Is that enough, you ass? She’s a—”

“Enough, noble Sire!” Nielsen interrupted with a mysterious air. “Thou hast spoken. Enough!” Luckily, his head and shoulders disappeared just in time.

Breen slammed the door.