"You find blue—becoming?"
"Adorable," he replied, fervently. "I have dreamed of you in blue. You wore blue only the night before last, when I wrote my little sketch of 'The Pavements of Bond Street on a Summer Afternoon.'"
She pointed to the journal which lay at her feet.
"I recognized myself, of course," she declared, trying to speak severely. "It was most improper of you."
"It was nothing of the sort," he answered bluntly. "You came into the picture and I could not keep you out. You were there, so you had to stay."
"It was much too flattering," she objected.
Again he contradicted her.
"I could not flatter if I tried," he assured her. "It was just you."
She laughed softly.
"It is so difficult to argue with you," she murmured. "All the same, I think that it was most improper. But then everything you do is improper. You had no right to climb over that wall, you had no right to walk here with me the other afternoon, even though you had driven away a tame cow. You have no right whatever to be here to-day. What about your wife?"