“I couldn’t settle for ever so long whether to have the girl with the broken pitcher, or with the lamb, but Miss Morrell said——”
“Who?”
“Miss Morrell. She was there in the shop, Cousin St. Quentin, and oh, she was so nice! She helped me choose, and we had tea together. She knows Lady Frederica, but I don’t think she knows you—she didn’t say so, but she asked how you were. Why, Cousin St. Quentin, would you like some more drops, or shall I ring for Dickson?”
“No, I don’t want anything or anybody; it’s all right. Only you had better go off to Aunt Rica. I’m tired to-night,” he said, turning away.
She was gathering up her pictures and going obediently, when he asked, still with his head averted, “Which did you say was the picture she liked?”
“The Broken Pitcher,” Sydney answered wonderingly.
“Well, you might leave me one to look at—that will do—the pitcher one, I mean.”
Sydney propped her Greuze upon the table where he could see it comfortably, and went out.