As she sat down she calmly crossed her knees, something which I hate to see a woman do in a public place.

“Gee, she has the hands and the feet all right!”

Dicky has a trick of mumbling beneath his breath, so that no one can detect that he is talking save the person whose ear is nearest to him.  It is convenient sometimes, but at other times it is most embarrassing, especially when he is making comments upon people near us.

“I don’t blame her for elevating one foot above the other,” Dicky rattled on.  “Not one woman in a thousand can wear those white spats.  She must have mighty small, well-shaped tootsies under them.”

The girl sat looking straight ahead of her.  The crossing of her knees revealed a swirl of silken petticoat, and more than a glimpse of filmy silk stockings.

Her shoes were patent leather pumps, utterly unsuitable for a trip to the country.  Over them she wore spats of the kind affected by so many girls.

I had a sudden remembrance of times in my own life when a new pair of shoes was as impossible to attain as a whole wardrobe.  I had a sudden intuition that the unsuitable pumps were like the rest of her clothes, left over from some former affluence.  She had bravely made the best of them by covering them with spats, which I knew she could obtain quite cheaply at some bargain sale.

“Looks like ready money, doesn’t she?” mumbled Dicky in my ear.

I did not answer, and suddenly Dicky stared at me.

“A trifle peeved, aren’t you?” Dicky’s voice was mocking.  But he saw what I could not conceal, that tears were rising to my eyes.  I was able to keep from shedding them, and no one but Dicky could possibly have guessed I was agitated.

He changed his tone and manner on the instant.

“I know I have been thoughtless, sweetheart,” he said earnestly, “but I keep forgetting that you are not used to my vagaries yet.  Tell me honestly, would you have been so resentful if I had been interested in some old man with chin whiskers as I was in the beautiful lady?”

A light broke upon me.  How foolish I had been.  I looked at Dicky shamefacedly.

“You mean—­”

“That she’s exactly the model I’ve been looking for to pose for those outdoor illustrations Fillmore wants.  One of the series is to be a girl on a step ladder, picking apple blossoms.  She is to be on her knees, and one foot is to be stretched out behind her.  The picture demands a perfect foot and ankle, and this girl has them.  Her features and hair, too, are just the type I want.  She would know how to pose, too.  You can see that from her air as she sits there.  And that’s half the battle.  If they do not have the faculty of posing naturally they could never be taught.”

I felt much humiliated, and I was very angry, but I must remember, I told myself, that I had married an artist.  I foresaw, however, many complications in our lives together.  If every time we took a trip anywhere, Dicky was to spend his time planning to secure the services of some possible model I could see very little pleasure for me in our outings.