"I scarcely see how she can help me," said Nick, with an air of thinking.
"She's extremely handsome, as I remember her: you could do great things with her."
"Ah, there's the rub," Nick went on. "I wanted her to sit for me this week, but she wouldn't."
"Elle a bien tort. You should do some fine strong type. Is Mrs. Dallow in London?" Nash inquired.
"For what do you take her? She's paying visits."
"Then I have a model for you."
"Then you have—?" Nick stared. "What has that to do with Mrs. Dallow's being away?"
"Doesn't it give you more time?"
"Oh, the time flies!" sighed Nick, in a manner that caused his companion to break into a laugh—a laugh in which for a moment he himself joined, blushing a little.
"Does she like you to paint?" Nash continued, with one of his candid intonations.
"So she says."
"Well, do something fine to show her."
"I'd rather show it to you," Nick confessed.
"My dear fellow, I see it from here, if you do your duty. Do you remember the Tragic Muse?" Nash pursued, explicatively.
"The Tragic Muse?"
"That girl in Paris, whom we heard at the old actress's and whom we afterwards met at the charming entertainment given by your cousin (isn't he?) the secretary of embassy."
"Oh, Peter's girl: of course I remember her."
