ent, and a flush of anger slowly
mounted her temples. The blue eyes were fixed reproachfully on her
friend.

"You really thought that I would pose?"

"I hoped so."

"Alone with a man in his studio for hours?"

Jane Anderson lifted her dark brows.

"Why, no, I hardly expected that! I'm sure he would take his easel and
palette out into the square in front of the Plaza Hotel and let you sit
on the base of the Sherman monument. The crowds would cheer and inspire
him--bah! Can't you have a little common-sense? There are a few
brutes among artists, as there are in all professions--even among the
superintendents of your schools. Gordon's a great creative genius. If
you'd try to flirt with him, he'd stop his work and send you home. You'd
be as safe in his studio as in your mother's nursery. I've known him
for ten years. He's the gentlest, truest man I've ever met. He's doing a
canvas on which he has set his whole heart."

"He can get professional models."

"For his usual work, yes--but this is the head of the Madonna. He saw
you walking with me in the Park last week and has been to my studio a
half-dozen times begging me to take you to see him. Please, Mary dear,
do this for my sake. I owe Gordon a debt I can never pay. He gave me
the cue to the work that set me on my feet. He was big and generous
and helpful when I needed a friend. He asked nothing in return but the
privilege of helping me again if I ever needed it. You can do me an
enormous favor--please."

Mary Adams rose with a gesture of impatience, walked to her window and
gazed on the torrent of humanity pouring through Twenty-third Street
from the beehives of industry that have changed this quarter of New York
so rapidly in the last five years. She turned suddenly and confronted
her friend.

"How could you think that I would stoop to such a thing?"

"Stoop!"

"Yes," she snapped, "--pose for an artist! I'd as soon think of rushing
stark naked through Twenty-third Street at noon!"

The older woman looked at her flushed face, suppressed a sharp answer,
broke into a fit of laughter and threw her arms around Mary's neck.

"Honey, you're such a hopeless little fool, you're delicious! You know
that I love you--don't you?"

The pretty lips quivered.

"Yes."

"Could I possibly ask you to do a thing that would harm a single brown
hair of your head?"

The firm hand of the older girl touched a rebellious lock with
tenderness.

"Of course not, from your poi