"Hello there, Miss Biglow!"
Two men stood below the terrace on a garden path. One of them waved his hat as Charity looked around. And behind them stood Jeems.
"Go away," said the worker, "go away, Judson Holmes. I haven't any time for you today."
"Not after I've come all the way from New York to see you?" he asked reproachfully. "Why, Charity!" He had the reddest hair Val had ever seen—and the homeliest face—but his small-boy grin was friendliness itself.
"Go away," she repeated stubbornly.
"Nope!" He shook his head firmly. "I'm staying right here until you forget that for at least a minute." He motioned toward the picture.
With a sigh she put down her brush. "I suppose I'll have to humor you."
"Miss Charity," Jeems had not taken his eyes from the two models since he had arrived and he did not move them now, "what're they all fixed up like that fur?"
"It's a picture for a story," she explained. "A story about Haiti in the old days—"
"Ah reckon Ah know," he nodded eagerly, his face suddenly alight. "That's wheah th' blacks kilt th' French back in history times. Ah got me a book 'bout it. A book in handwritin', not printin'. Père Armand larned me to read it."