They had bowed their heads in bewilderment to the perverse and cruel law in virtue of which the real thing could be so much less precious than the unreal; but they didn't want to starve.

If my servants were my models, then my models might be my servants.

They would reverse the parts--the others would sit for the ladies and gentlemen and THEY would do the work.

They would still be in the studio--it was an intense dumb appeal to me not to turn them out.
"Take us on," they wanted to say--"we'll do ANYTHING." My pencil dropped from my hand; my sitting was spoiled and I got rid of my sitters, who were also evidently rather mystified and awestruck.
Then, alone with the Major and his wife I had a most uncomfortable moment.

He put their prayer into a single sentence: "I say, you know--just let US do for you, can't you ?" I couldn't--it was dreadful to see them emptying my slops; but I pretended I could, to oblige them, for about a week.