"She was certainly angry." He smiled reminiscently—he had a charming smile. "She had every right to be."
"Look here," she said impulsively, "what is to prevent you from lunching with me?"
"Your plans for the day—this car—and, for the matter of that, my clothes."
"I have no appointments, and no fixed plans. I was going to amuse myself just anyhow. I shall like this far better. Oh, can't you arrange it for me?"
"I should like it, too, and I can arrange it all very easily if you don't mind waiting half an hour."
"Of course I'll wait—wait here, if you like."
"You would find the National Gallery more interesting, and I can take you there in a few minutes."
"Yes, that's better. Thanks awfully. This is splendid."
At the National Gallery she looked at certain pictures with appreciative intelligence. Then she sat down and half-closed her eyes, and saw a picture from the gallery of her memory.
It was the big classroom at Salston Hill School. At one end of the room Myra Larose took the elementary class in drawing. At the other end, much older girls took the lesson in advanced drawing from a master who was, as the prospectus stated, an exhibitor at the Royal Academy. His name was Hilary Davenant, and in the bills he was charged extra. The older girls were ten in number, and were provided with easels, charcoal, and stumps. They formed the circumference of a circle of which the centre was a life-size cast with a blackboard adjacent.