Ann Dorland Goes Misere
The studio door was opened by a girl he did not know. She was not tall, but compactly and generously built. He noticed the wide shoulders and the strong swing of the thighs before he had taken in her face. The uncurtained window behind her threw her features into shadow, he was only aware of thick black hair, cut in a square bob, with a bang across the forehead.
"Miss Phelps is out."
"Oh!—will she be long?"
"Don't know. She'll be in to supper."
"Do you think I might come in and wait?"
"I expect so, if you're a friend of hers."
The girl fell back from the doorway and let him pass. He laid his hat and stick on the table and turned to her. She took no notice of him, but walked over to the fireplace and stood with one hand on the mantelpiece. Unable to sit down, since she was still standing, Wimsey moved to the modeling-board, and raised the wet cloth that covered the little mound of clay.
He was gazing with an assumption of great interest at the half-modeled figure of an old flower-seller, when the girl said:
"I say!"