“Oh, Bertram, how splendid!”
“Isn't it? And then the girl herself! Have you seen her? But you haven't, I know, unless you met her abroad. She hasn't been in Boston for years until now.”
“No, I haven't seen her. Is she so very beautiful?” Billy spoke a little soberly.
“Yes—and no.” The artist lifted his head alertly. What Billy called his “painting look” came to his face. “It isn't that her features are so regular—though her mouth and chin are perfect. But her face has so much character, and there's an elusive something about her eyes—Jove! If I can only catch it, it'll be the best thing yet that I've ever done, Billy.”
“Will it? I'm so glad—and you'll get it, I know you will,” claimed Billy, clearing her throat a little nervously.
“I wish I felt so sure,” sighed Bertram. “But it'll be a great thing if I do get it—J. G. Winthrop's daughter, you know, besides the merit of the likeness itself.”
“Yes; yes, indeed!” Billy cleared her throat again. “You've seen her, of course, lately?”
“Oh, yes. I was there half the morning discussing the details—sittings and costume, and deciding on the pose.”
“Did you find one—to suit?”
“Find one!” The artist made a despairing gesture. “I found a dozen that I wanted. The trouble was to tell which I wanted the most.”