"Perhaps I have. Anyhow, I like to hear you tell me so. I should like to think I had been silly, but I don't know."
"I'm afraid if you've been silly the portrait will be silly too," said she. "Is it silly, Frank?"
"It's wonderful," said he, suddenly stopping short. "It is not only like me, but it's me—at least, if you will stop with me while I work it will be all me. I shall feel safer if you are there."
"Then I won't be there," said Margery. "You are not a child any longer, and you must work alone. You always say you can't work if any one else is there."
"Well, I don't suppose it matters," said Frank, with returning confidence. "The fact that I know you are in the house will be enough. But the portrait—it's wonderful! I can't think why I loathe it so."
"You loathe it because you have been working at it in a ridiculous manner," said Margery. "To-morrow I regulate your day for you. I shall leave you your morning to yourself, and after lunch you shall come out with me for two hours at least. We will go up some of those little creeks where we went two years ago. Come in now. It's nearly dinner-time."
When they were alone and a portrait was in progress they often sat in the studio after dinner; but to-night, when Margery proposed it, Frank started up from where he was sitting.
"No, Margery," he said, "please let us sit here. I don't want to go to the studio at all."
"It's the scene of your crime," said Margery.
Frank turned pale.