"I want to sit on the other side," announced Theocritus.
"When we come back, dear. See, the church is quite near; we shall soon be there now," answered his aunt.
"You remember it, don't you?" said Claudia to Lenox.
"Perfectly."
"No—now," piped Theocritus. "The wind is blowing down my back."
"If he is cold, Stephen—" said Mrs. Lenox.
"I will change places with him," replied her husband. "Do not move, Miss Marcy."
"No; Aunt Lizzie must go too!" said the boy. He had wrinkled up his little face until he looked like an aged dwarf in a temper; he stretched back his lips over his little square white teeth, and glared at his uncle and Miss Marcy.
"Let me change—do," said Claudia, rising as she spoke. And Mrs. Lenox accepted the offer.
"When you have finished my portrait, suppose you paint yourself as a fifteenth-century Venetian general," continued Miss Marcy, taking up again the thread of conversation which had been broken by Theocritus's obstinacy. "The portrait of a man painted by himself is always interesting; you can see then what he thinks he is."