“Yes. Now paint. I want to see you. Aunt Hannah has gone out anyway, and I'm lonesome. I think I'll stay.”
“But I can't—that is, I'm not used to spectators.”
“Of course you aren't, you poor old lonesomeness! But it isn't going to be that way, any more, you know, now that I've come. I sha'n't let you be lonesome.”
“I could swear to that,” declared the man, with sudden fervor; and for Billy's peace of mind it was just as well, perhaps, that she did not know the exact source of that fervency.
“Now paint,” commanded Billy again.
Because he did not know what else to do, Bertram picked up a brush; but he did not paint. The first stroke of his brush against the canvas was to Spunk a challenge; and Spunk never refused a challenge. With a bound he was on Bertram's knee, gleeful paw outstretched, batting at the end of the brush.
“Tut, tut—no, no—naughty Spunk! Say, but wasn't that cute?” chuckled Billy. “Do it again!”
The artist gave an exasperated sigh.
“My dear girl,” he protested, “cruel as it may seem to you, this picture is not a kindergarten game for the edification of small cats. I must politely ask Spunk to desist.”
“But he won't!” laughed Billy. “Never mind; we will take it some day when he's asleep. Let's not paint any more, anyhow. I've come to see your rooms.” And she sprang blithely to her feet. “Dear, dear, what a lot of faces!—and all girls, too! How funny! Why don't you paint other things? Still, they are rather nice.”