"You make a braver front," replied he, "but sometimes I suspect it's only a front. Will you give me a sitting this afternoon?"
"I'll change to that dress, and tell Molly not to let anyone in."
She had been gone about ten minutes when the bell rang again. Boris continued to busy himself with paints and brushes until he caught Armstrong's voice. He frowned, paused in his preparations, and listened.
"Is Miss Genevieve at home?" Armstrong was saying.
To Boris's astonishment, he heard the old woman answer, in a tone which did not conceal her dislike for the man she was addressing, "Yes, sir. Go into the studio. She will be in shortly."
Armstrong entered, to find himself facing Raphael's most irritating expression—an amused disdain, the more penetrating for a polite pretense of concealment. "Come in, Mr. Armstrong," cried he. "But you mustn't stay long, as we're at work."
"How d'ye do," said Armstrong, all but ignoring him. "Sorry to annoy you. But don't mind me. Go right on." And he began to wander about the room—Raphael had thrown a drape over his picture of Neva. The minutes dragged; the silence was oppressive. Finally Armstrong said, "Miss Carlin must be dressing."
"Beg pardon?" asked Boris, as if he had not heard.
"Nothing," replied Armstrong. "Perhaps I was thinking aloud."
Silence again, until Raphael, in the hope of inducing this untimely visitor to depart, said, "Miss Carlin is getting ready for a sitting."