And he got into a hansom and went, wondering with some amusement how Claudia had persuaded Morewood to paint her. It turned out, however, that the transaction was of a purely commercial character. Rickmansworth, having been very successful at the race-meeting above referred to, had been minded to give his sister a present, and she had chosen her own head on a canvas. The price offered was such that Morewood could not refuse; but he had in the course of the sitting greatly annoyed Claudia by mentioning incidentally that her face did not interest him and was, in fact, such a face as he would never have painted but for the pressure of penury.
"Why doesn't it interest you?" asked she, in pardonable irritation.
"I don't know. It's—but I dare say it's my fault," he replied, in that tone which clearly implies the opposite of what is asserted.
"It must be, I think," said Claudia gently. "You see, it interests so many people, Mr. Morewood."
"Not artists."
"Dear me! no!"
"Whom, then?"
"Oh, the nobility and gentry."
"And clergy?"
A shadow passed across her face—but a fleeting shadow.