She wandered aimlessly about, with her piteous shrill cry of, “Amuse me, amuse me! Oh, will no one amuse me!” She had tired of Honor’s hats and new dresses, of chocolates, of Mark’s stories; and her irritating and monotonous appeal had become as maddening as the constant slamming of a door.
“Look here, Sweet. I have a grand idea,” said Mark at last. “Would you like me to draw your picture?”
“And colour it?” she asked judicially.
“Yes; and put in your blue sash, and all.”
“And my necklace?”
“Certainly—your necklace too, if you please.”
“Then do—do—do it this instant minute!”
“You must wait till I get my drawing things and paints; and you will have to sit quite, quite still for a whole hour. If you cannot do that, there will only be an ugly picture! Do you understand? My easel and things are at Haddon Hall. I must send for them; so if you like to go and smarten yourself up, you can.”
He had scarcely ceased to speak, ere the vain little creature strutted straight off to her own room, loudly calling for her ayah in imperious Hindostani.
Mrs. Brande could hardly believe her eyes when an hour later she came into the verandah, in some trepidation, to see what made Sweet so quiet, and discovered the “little blister,” as she mentally called her, seated demurely on a chair, as rigid and motionless as a statue.