“But she at least sits for the others, does she not? She is such a strikingly picturesque girl, I should think you would ask her.”
“We have asked her,” Milly replied, “but she is just as obstinate as she can be. I wish, Madame, you would make her.”
Madame shook her little wiry curls. “This is a matter which must be left entirely to individual preference, my dear. It would be very wrong, indeed, for any of you to make a portrait of Miss Armstrong without her consent. I have known young amateur photographers to lay themselves open to an action at law by taking photographs of people without their knowledge. Our personality is a very sacred thing, and whoever possesses himself of that without warrant commits a dishonorable action.”
Milly looked as if she were about to faint, while Professor Waite, who felt the intention of Madame’s remarks, and his own thoughtlessness, bit his mustache nervously. Winnie was tittering in an unseemly manner behind her easel, but, thankful as I was that the professor had changed the portrait, I still felt the gravity of the occasion.
Madame’s manner changed. “Miss Vaughn,” she said to Cynthia, “will you ask Miss Armstrong to step to the studio for a moment.” Then turning to our teacher, she added, “I have a very painful duty to perform, my dear Professor, and you must pardon me if my questions seem to you unwarranted. Will you tell me whether, for any reason whatever, you have carried on a written correspondence with Miss Armstrong or with any other member of this school?”
“I have not, Madame.”
“Have never either written to her or received letters from her?”
“Never, Madame. Who has charged me with such a clandestine and dishonourable act?”
Madame did not reply, for Adelaide entered the room. She was very stately and pale. Cynthia had not had far to go, and Adelaide had come instantly.
“Why have you sent for me?” she asked resolutely.