Landry followed her to the studio and stood obediently quiet on the threshold, to contemplate his unconscious Rosaleen. And became lost, absorbed in looking at her.
She seemed so much younger, like a school girl, in her sailor blouse, with her fair, untidy hair and her serious preoccupation with her work. How dear she was! How innocent and fine and lovely!
“Rosaleen!” called Miss Waters, in a voice trembling with excitement.
Rosaleen glanced up, to meet the serious and unsmiling regard of her hero.
They were both confused, embarrassed, almost alarmed; their eyes met in a glance singularly bold and significant, belying their formal smiles, their casual words.
“I missed you the other day,” said Landry.
“I know ... I was sorry ... I had to hurry home....”
He crossed the room and stood beside her, looking down at her drawing.
“It’s very pretty,” he said, with constraint. “What is it for?”
“Oh!... Just a picture!”