In Aunt Hannah's black silk lap Spunk stretched luxuriously, and blinked sleepy eyes; then with a long purr of content he curled himself for another nap—still Spunk.
It was some time after luncheon that day that Bertram heard a knock at his studio door. Bertram was busy. His particular pet “Face of a Girl” was to be submitted soon to the judges of a forthcoming Art Exhibition, and it was not yet finished. He was trying to make up now for the many hours lost during the last few days; and even Bertram, at times, did not like interruptions. His model had gone, but he was still working rapidly when the knock came. His tone was not quite cordial when he answered.
“Well?”
“It's I—Spunk and I. May we come in?” called a confident voice.
Bertram said a sharp word behind his teeth—but he opened the door.
“Of course! I was—painting,” he announced.
“How lovely! And I'll watch you. Oh, my—what a pretty room!”
“I'm glad you like it.”
“Indeed I do; I like it ever so much. I shall stay here lots, I know.”
“Oh, you—will!” For once even Bertram's ready tongue failed to find fitting response.