“I’m going to do it in sepia,” he replied in triumph.
“It mustn’t occur again,” she said.
He thanked God for a good supper, and sprang to the harmonium, where his paint-box was. Amy cleared away. Constance did crochet-work. There was silence. The clock struck nine, and it also struck half-past nine. She warned him repeatedly. At ten minutes to ten she said persuasively:
“Now, Cyril, when the clock strikes ten I shall really put the gas out.”
The clock struck ten.
“Half a mo, half a mo!” he cried. “I’ve done! I’ve done!”
Her hand was arrested.
Another four minutes elapsed, and then he jumped up. “There you are!” he said proudly, showing her the block. And all his gestures were full of grace and cajolery.
“Yes, it’s very good,” Constance said, rather indifferently.
“I don’t believe you care for it!” he accused her, but with a bright smile.