III
But the next morning when Miss Mell opened the door to put a bundle of rubbish out into the hall she found there a neat little package, and in it a sketch of Rosaleen standing with the mouse-trap in her hand, startled and puzzled.
“To you!” he had written. “Because you look just as a little female artist ought to look. All soul. Of course, you haven’t any soul. But I will help you to play being an artist, because of your lovely soulful artist eyes.”
“Hum!” said Enid. “She’d better not have that. It won’t do to let her get conceited. She’s too useful.”
And she tore it into pieces and threw it into the fire.
“My dear!” cried Miss Mell. “I don’t think that was right!”
“Rot!” said Enid. “He’s simply trying to show that he’s not attracted by me. Can’t you see?”
“What I can’t see,” said Miss Mell, thoughtfully. “Is—which is the most unbearably conceited—you or Lawrence Iverson?”
“He is,” said Enid, “because he’s older. It gets worse, always.”
He came up again that afternoon; and, though they hadn’t spoken of it, they were all three quite sure that he would come, and were waiting for him.