One day toward the middle of June Valerie did not arrive on time at the studio.

She had never before been late.
About two o'clock Sam Ogilvy sauntered in, a skull pipe in his mouth, his hair rumpled: "It's that damn mermaid of mine," he said, "can't you come up and look at her and tell me what's the trouble, Kelly ?" "Not now.

Who's posing ?" "Rita.

She's in a volatile humour, too--fidgets; denies fidgeting; reproaches me for making her keep quiet; says I draw like a bum chimney--no wonder my work's rotten! Besides, she's in a tub of water, wearing that suit of fish-scales I had made for Violet Cliland, and she says it's too tight and she's tired of the job, anyway.

Fancy my mental condition." "Oh, she won't throw you down.