“Officer!”
There was a sound behind Pat. He turned to see a young man in khaki with shining black gloves, standing in the door.
“Officer, this man is an employee of Mr. DeTinc’s. Mr. DeTinc lent him to me for the afternoon.”
The policeman looked at the staring image of guilt upon the couch.
“Get fresh?” he inquired.
“I don’t want to prefer charges—I called the desk to be on the safe side. He was to pose for me in the nude and now he refuses.” She walked casually to her easel. “Mr. Hobby, why don’t you stop this mock-modesty—you’ll find a turkish towel in the bathroom.”
Pat reached stupidly for his shoes. Somehow it flashed into his mind that they were running the eighth race at Santa Anita —
“Shake it up, you,” said the cop. “You heard what the lady said.”
Pat stood up vaguely and fixed a long poignant look on the Princess.
“You told me—” he said hoarsely, “you wanted to paint—”
“You told me I meant something else. Hurry please. And officer, there’s a drink in the pantry.”
…A few minutes later as Pat sat shivering in the center of the room his memory went back to those peep-shows of his youth—though at the moment he could see little resemblance. He was grateful at least for the turkish towel, even now failing to realize that the Princess was not interested in his shattered frame but in his face.
It wore the exact expression that had wooed her in the commissary, the expression of Hollywood and Vine, the other self of Mr. DeTinc—and she worked fast while there was still light enough to paint by.
