A moment later the studio was in a tumult. The sketches had been handed over to the three judges, who had gone into instant consultation over them. Mrs. Jacques had decreed, with characteristic decision, that the judges were bound to be as prompt as the competitors, and the award was promised within half an hour. What wonder if the usual tumult of dispersion was increased tenfold by the excitement of the occasion? The voices were pitched in a higher key, the easels clattered more noisily than ever, there was a more lively movement among the many-hued aprons, as they were pulled off and consigned with many a shake and a flourish to their respective pegs.
“Eleanor’s eyes had wandered to the high, broad north window.”
“What did you paint?” asked one high voice, whose owner was enthusiastically shaking the water from her paint-brush all over the floor.
“I painted you—working for the prize.”
“Not really!”
“Yes, really! You were just at the right angle for it, and you did look so hopeful!”
“You can’t make me believe you played such a shabby trick upon me, Mary Downing!”