He thought he saw the diaphanous gossamer of a smile flit swiftly across her face. But he could not be sure; it might have been an imagining of his own sensitiveness. “I read somewhere,” observed she, “that genius is the capacity for taking infinite pains.”
“I’m hanged if I know whether I’m taking pains, as I hope, or am just dawdling, as I fear and as you believe. However, we’ll soon be done.”
“You say that as if you were glad.”
“Oh, of course I’m pleased to work in such charming company,” said he politely. His face took on the expression that always made her uneasy as he added: “Still, I never lose sight of my career.”
“No danger of that,” declared she, with a conviction of tone which she could have found it in her heart to wish insincere. “I never saw anyone so persistent and so—so hard.”
He laughed at the absurdity of her calling him hard. What would she think if she knew what a relentless taskmaster he usually was!
“How much longer do you think you’ll need me?” asked she.
“Not many days. Three or four, perhaps.”
It was her turn to drop into depressed abstraction. She roused herself to say, “Won’t you use me in another picture?”
He frowned—it was nearly a scowl. “No, indeed,” said he. “I’ve—that is, I’ve imposed on you enough.”