But Oliver, who, with an air of amused curiosity, had strolled across to the deserted easel, was staring from her sketch to her, and from her to Justin, and so back again to the sketch. Then he whistled—a prolonged and penetrating whistle.
“Here, get up, Justin!” he commanded. “Let’s have a look at you.”
Justin hauled himself out of his chair with a yawn and stood to attention. Oliver looked at him, as Laura had looked, through insolent, narrowed lids: indeed, for an instant, there was the oddest likeness between them, different in type as they were. When at last he addressed her, there was a new and intimate note in his voice—
“I suppose you know what you’ve done?”
“I know what I’ve not done. I don’t want butter, Oliver, I want water. I’m thirsty.”
But he swept on excitedly as he went to fetch her a glass.
“Oh, you’ve justified yourself. I—I’m half afraid of you. How did you see all that? I never saw all that——”
“All what?” struck in Justin, as he considered himself critically, his head on one side. “What are you driving at? I think it’s rather good.”
Laura smiled at them both with her mouth full.
But Oliver continued to hold forth. His eyes danced. He shook a warning forefinger.