Duska, half-closing her eyes, gazed at it with uptilted chin resting on slender fingers. For a time, she did not speak, but the man read her delight in her eyes. At last, she said, her voice low with appreciation:
“I love it!”
Turning away to take up a new picture, he felt as though he had received an accolade.
“It might have been the very spot,” she said thoughtfully, “that Señor Ribero described in his story.”
Saxon felt a cloud sweep over the sunshine shed by her praise. His back was turned, but his face grew suddenly almost gray.
The girl only heard him say quietly:
“Señor Ribero spoke of South America. This was in Yucatan.”
When the last canvas had been criticized, Saxon led the girl out to the shaded verandah.
“Do you know,” she announced with severe directness, “when I know you just a little better, I’m going to lecture you?”
“Lecture me!” His face mirrored alarm. “Do it now—then, I sha’n’t have it impending to terrorize better acquaintance.”