Standing at the open window, he looked at her--smiling but silent--as she held the pose.
For an instant, she did not understand.

"Am I not right ?" she asked anxiously.

Then, before he could answer--"Oh, have you finished?
Is it all done ?" Still smiling, he answered almost sadly, "I have done all that I can do.
Come." A moment later, she stood in the studio door.
Seeing her hesitate, he said again, "Come." "I--I am afraid to look," she faltered.
He laughed.

"Really I don't think it's quite so bad as that." "Oh, but I don't mean that I'm afraid it's bad--it isn't." The painter watched her,--a queer expression on his face,--as he returned curiously, "And how, pray tell, do you know it isn't bad--when you have never seen it?
It's quite the thing, I'll admit, for critics to praise or condemn without much knowledge of the work; but I didn't expect you to be so modern." "You are making fun of me," she laughed.

"But I don't care.