“That man is utterly incapable of sentiment,” Winnie remarked wrathfully. “Now how natural it would be to make a romance out of such a rescue, but Professor Waite’s heart is as stony as that of the Apollo Belvedere.”
Milly smiled piteously and shook her head, while she looked significantly from me toward Adelaide, as much as to say: “We know better; he is not so stony-hearted as he seems.”
Having my attention directed to the matter, I kept my eyes open for little indications of the state of Professor Waite’s sentiments, and presently found that they were not lacking. The studio was not occupied by classes until after ten o’clock in the morning, and Professor Waite came every day very early, and painted there alone until the first wave of pupils swept in and filled the room with an encampment of easels. He explained to me that he was preparing a picture for the Academy exhibition, the morning light was good, and as his studio in the city was shared with another young artist, he preferred to come here where he could work quietly and undisturbed for a few hours each morning. He always bolted the corridor door to secure complete seclusion, and we had often to wait a few moments until he admitted us. He did not show us the painting, but it was evident that he was deeply interested in it, for he was frequently distraught, and apparently vexed at being obliged to turn his attention to our offences against art, just as he was worked up to a fine phrensy of production. At such times he would run his fingers through his hair, and stare at the work which the first unfortunate pupil presented with a repugnance which was often more clearly than politely expressed. Sometimes his ill humour vented itself on the model. We were in the habit of taking turns and, dressed in some picturesque costume, of posing for the class for a week at a time. After the Halloween experience it happened to be Milly’s turn. We had costumed her as an Italian contadina, and thought that she looked very prettily. But Professor Waite was not satisfied.
“Why have you chosen a blonde for such a character?” he asked me impatiently. “That little snub nose and milk-and-water complexion have nothing Italian in their make up. If you could induce that superb creature, Miss Armstrong, to wear the costume, you would see the difference.”
Milly had heard the remark though he did not intend she should do so, and her eyes suffused with tears as usual. “I will ask Adelaide,” she said meekly, “but I don’t believe she will be willing to pose for the class.”
“Never mind the class,” Professor Waite replied eagerly. “If Miss Armstrong will honor me by giving me personally a few sittings each morning for my Academy picture I shall be more gratified than I can express.”
Milly, more than happy to attempt to do the professor a favor, besought Adelaide, who was obdurate and even indignant.
“The very idea!” she exclaimed. “I never heard of such assurance. I figure in his picture at a public exhibition, indeed.”
“Why, I am sure it’s a great honor,” Milly replied, bridling feebly; “and I won’t have you treat him in such a desultory manner.”
We all laughed, for Milly, as usual when excited, had mixed her words—insulting and derogatory clamoring at the same time in her small mind for utterance.