"I make a condition," the Colonel exclaimed abruptly, in his voice of martinet. "If there's a likeness the sketch is forfeited."
"I'm safe," Geoffry laughed. "I never got a likeness in my life."
"I will be as evasive as possible," said Kenwick, somewhat nettled; "but it's rather late to impose conditions."
"Am I holding the poppies right?" asked May, after what seemed to her a long interval of silence. "I'm afraid they will begin to droop pretty soon."
"The poppies are all right," Geoffry assured her.
"Does that mean the rest of it isn't? I posed for the girls in a studio once, and they said I did it very well."
"Girls usually pose well," Kenwick observed; upon which May concluded, most illogically, that he was conceited.
Pauline, meanwhile, had not turned toward the other gondola which lay astern of theirs. She was watching her sister and wishing she could sketch. She thought, if she could, she would rather do her as she received the poppies from the hands of the gondolier. She had one of her prettiest looks then, and the little touch of action was more characteristic. There was something conventional, and therefore not quite natural in this passive pose; May was not in the habit of sitting still to be looked at.
"Would you like to see, Miss Beverly?"
The other gondola had glided up close alongside, and Daymond held out his sketch. Faithful to his bond, and to his professed disabilities, he had scarcely hinted at the face, but the pose was charmingly successful, and the scheme of colour was all he had promised. Bright as the poppies were, and well as they were indicated, without being individualised, in the sketchy handling, the really high light of the picture was caught in the golden hair, which gleamed against the silvery blending of water and sky, and was thrown into still brighter relief by the graceful black prow curving beyond it, but a little off the line.