“He wasn't—
“But I wish he had been—
“He will be!”
She went to see him—in his studio.
A bijou studio, fitted for a painter of miniatures. French gilt gimcracks. Garlands of fresh pink roses, tied with blue ribbons.
“Get out,” he said, staring at her a second and then returning to his niggling at a miniature.
Warble made a face at him.
“Do that again,” he commanded, reaching for a clean slice of ivory.
A few tiny brushmarks.