Here, as the telephone rang passionately, he offered his hand with an air of graceful dismissal, and bowed her to the door.
“Twenty-five shillings and compliments,” announced Rose, as she handed the little cheque to her sister.
“Three guineas—and gush!” rejoined Josephine, with a delighted laugh. “Miss Wiggin is enchanted with your nose—highly flattered, and said it was so admirably truthful to life! She took the miniature away to the drawing-room, and exhibited it to some friends—then she called me in. A man who was an artist talked of ‘fine technical achievement,’ ‘a subtle interpretation of a personality,’ and other grand terms. The main thing was, he liked it; and I received two orders. Miss Wiggin was so fascinated with her picture, she kept looking, and looking at it, and could not bear to put it down. She has ordered another copy, and she asked me such an odd question.”
“Your age?—your dressmaker’s address?”
“No, you silly, silly girl, but if I had painted it myself?”
“And you replied, ‘Of course—who else?’”
“Yes, but she said, ‘The reason I ask is, that it is so very superior to your general work—such dash—and yet such finish.’
“I can see that myself. When I was working on it I felt as if I were inspired, and influenced; I was in a sort of raging fever—my brush flew here and there, and instead of making a hideous muddle, every stroke told!”
“Imagine drawing inspiration from the face of a Miss Wiggin!” exclaimed Rose.
“Imagine it, indeed! The miniature is to be exhibited. It may make my fortune. It is good—I feel it in my bones.”