“Changed it!”
“Yes. Wasn't satisfied. Fancied she wanted it different.”
“But can't you—don't you have something to say about it?”
“Oh, yes, of course; and she claims she'll yield to my judgment, anyhow. But what's the use? She's been a spoiled darling all her life, and in the habit of having her own way about everything. Naturally, under those circumstances, I can't expect to get a satisfactory portrait, if she's out of tune with the pose. Besides, I will own, so far her suggestions have made for improvement—probably because she's been happy in making them, so her expression has been good.”
Billy wet her lips.
“I saw her the other night,” she said lightly. (If the lightness was a little artificial Bertram did not seem to notice it.) “She is certainly—very beautiful.”
“Yes.” Bertram got to his feet and began to walk up and down the little room. His eyes were alight. On his face the “painting look” was king. “It's going to mean a lot to me—this picture, Billy. In the first place I'm just at the point in my career where a big success would mean a lot—and where a big failure would mean more. And this portrait is bound to be one or the other from the very nature of the thing.”
“I-is it?” Billy's voice was a little faint.
“Yes. First, because of who the sitter is, and secondly because of what she is. She is, of course, the most famous subject I've had, and half the artistic world knows by this time that Marguerite Winthrop is being done by Henshaw. You can see what it'll be—if I fail.”
“But you won't fail, Bertram!”