"And listen to me, Guilder. What the devil's a woman between
friends?" argued Quair, with a malicious side glance at Drene. "You
take my best girl away from me--"

"But I don't," remarked his partner dryly.

"For the sake of argument, you do. What happens? Do I raise hell?
No. I merely thank you. Why? Because I don't want her if you can get
her away. That," he added, with satisfaction, "is philosophy. Isn't
it, Drene?"

Guilder intervened pleasantly: "I don't think Drene is particularly interested in philosophy. I'm
sure I'm not. Shut up, please."

Drene, gravely annoyed, continued to pinch bits of modeling wax out
of a round tin box, and to stick them all over the sketch he was
modifying.

Now and then he gave a twirl to the top of his working table, which
revolved with a rusty squeak.

"If you two unusually intelligent gentlemen ask me what good a woman
the world--" began Quair.

"But we don't," interrupted Guilder, in the temperate voice peculiar
to his negative character.

"Anyway," insisted Quair, "here's what I think of 'em--"

"My model, yonder," said Drene, a slight shrug of contempt, "happens
to be feminine, and may also be human. Be decent enough to defer the
development of your rather tiresome theory."

The girl on the model-stand laughed outright at the rebuke,
stretched her limbs and body, and relaxed, launching a questioning
glance at Drene.