Nevertheless, as she was hurrying past the door of the middle studio, two hours later, Askett came out hastily and called her back.
"Is all your time filled up for the present?" he asked, "or could you sit to me next week, in the afternoons?"
A gleam of mischief lurked in her eyes, but he was still unsuspecting, and he mistook her hesitation for reflection.
"I could come next week," she said. "What time?"
"Two o'clock on Monday. And you can give me your name and address so that I shall know where to write to you. You'll very likely forget all about it."
"Do you really think that's possible?" smiled Anna. Askett said nothing, but looked over her head at the wall as though she were not there at all, and waited for her to reply. Anna was racking her brains for a name that would be likely to belong to a model.
"Well?" he said, impatiently.
"Oh, you want my name?" said Anna, desperately. "Well, my address is care of Miss Anna Angell, 25 Beaconsfield Mansions, Belgravia. And my name is — is Poppy — Poppy Wilson. Oh dear! That's wrong — I mean"
He was staring at her, for the first time, with something approaching ordinary human interest.
"There seems to be a difficulty about the name," he remarked. He was not surprised at all; she had probably quarrelled with her family —models always had — and so was afraid to give her real name. He put down her confusion to the fact that she had not been sitting long, and was new at the deception. "What's the matter with Wilson?" he asked, not unkindly. "It's a very nice name, isn't it?"
"Oh, Wilson's all right," she hastened to assure him. "It's
