"I'm coming down!" she warned desperately.
"I wouldn't—yet. He can really bite, ma'am. Have you been there long?"
"An hour."
"Is it comfortable up there?"
She remained grimly silent. It was not comfortable. The limb was very hard and its diameter was meager. Her feet were asleep.
The boatman returned to a study of the "portrait." He even began to read aloud from it, when Rosalind stopped him with an imploring exclamation.
"Please—please!" she cried.
"But it's such a good portrait," he protested, looking up at her mildly. "It's a new kind of art. It's got the cubists beaten a mile. Statist, I suppose you'd call it. It gives all the dope—just draws a picture in facts and figures. I'm strong for it.
"Listen. Here's where it says you—"
"Stop!"