“You pose,” said Miss Valentine.
“I swear I don’t!” Oliver sat up.
“I say, Laura!” Justin warned her.
“He does, Justin. I watched him before you came. Oh, you know you do.” She faced Oliver accusingly. “You were varnishing: you didn’t want all that gamboge. Now, did you?”
Suddenly Oliver, who was sweet-tempered, began to laugh guiltily.
“I believe she’s right! Justin—I believe she’s right!”
“Yes—and knocking over your easel to look excited, and—” she thought she might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb—“and shaking hands four times running and saying to me that I didn’t like you—like that. When you’re a little boy it’s being enfant terrible and funny, but when you’re grown-up it’s just pose.”
“Now, look here—Laura!” Oliver planted his elbows squarely on the table.
“Yes—Oliver!” She met his twinkling eyes stubbornly.
“If you please, what did you call Florence just now?”