The wondering rustics slowly vanished; only one lingered and as Lloyd's gaze fell upon him he recognised the figure clad in a whitey-gray garb which had so persistently dogged his steps. His voice took on an authoritative cadence.
"Clear out. This is no performance. Clear out, I say!"
The figure turned like a dog that would fain fly at the throat, yet slinks in fear.
"I ain't carin' what you say," the intruder blustered. Then he slowly slouched out, muttering to himself, with the flapping brim of his hat well pulled down over his bright young eyes.
"You will make a lovely picture in that charming dress," Lucia said blandly, as Lloyd stepped here and there, pulling at the curtain to get a better light.
"It's all wore an' tore," Clotilda said deprecatingly. She did not doubt the admiration of the men, but she was all abashed and awkward in this presence of dainty feminine elegance. She scanned the two openly, as if comparing their traits. Then she fixed her eyes sedulously on Lucia. Her face was so out of drawing with this heavy, dully pondering, loutish expression, so incongruous with the poetic charm she had wrought, that Miss Laniston suggested:
"Sing—sing a line or two of that pretty song—sing, and dance a few steps."
The girl lifted her docile head, sprang lightly into the air, her fresh young voice floated out and suddenly the camera clicked.
"That is all, and when I get the pictures out I will come and see you and bring some of them to you. This gentleman tells me you live near by in the mountains. Where is your home?"
"He knows. He'll kem an' guide you," Clotilda easily promised for him.