“How do you like my new suit?” asked she.
“Very good,” replied he. “But while you’ve gained something, you’ve lost more.”
“I know it,” admitted she. “I saw it the instant I looked at myself in the glass, and I’ve felt it all the way here. I’ve lost what you like best in me. That is, I’ve not exactly lost it, but covered it up. But it’s still here.” This last in a tone gay with enjoyment in teasing him.
He stood with his back to the fire, and waited. She came slowly toward him, halting at every second step. Her smile was mysterious—and disquieting. It was a mocking smile, yet behind it there lurked—what? What was the mystery of that proposal?
“Well, I suppose you’ll be satisfied now,” said she. “I’m engaged.”
“I don’t care anything about it,” declared he. “Let’s talk of something else.”
They were facing each other now, not many steps apart; and the sight of her, in such high good humor, made it simply impossible for him to remain grumpy, or to pretend that he was. She went on: “I did it this morning—instead of coming to pose for you. I hope I didn’t put you out too much. I couldn’t think of any way to send you word.”
“I wasn’t there,” said he. “I can finish the picture up here.”
“Then you don’t need me any more?” inquired she. And the little hands she was stretching out to the blaze dropped pathetically to her side and up went her face to gaze into his mournfully.
“I’ve done with models in America!” said he, laughing—not in very mirthful fashion, however.