“Yes’m,” murmured Cynthia meekly, ashamed to have given them all such a fright.
There was, however, a final straw. At dinner that night Madame reported that she had seen the mother of the little girl, Leonie her name was, and that the woman refused to let the child pose for her portrait.
“But how silly,” stammered Cynthia. “What is the matter? I’ll pay for her time of course.”
“It’s not that,” Mrs. Brewster explained from Madame’s conversation. “But they are rather afraid of artists. The few who come here paint only the sea and the dunes. They aren’t accustomed to the idea of artists’ models, not even for portraits. This woman seems unusually simple and I suppose the word ‘posing’ made her think of wicked Paris! I’m sorry, for I think I might have persuaded her. Madame probably didn’t know how to go about it tactfully. ... If the woman could have met you. ... But aren’t there others you can get? I’m sure there must be.”
So that Christmas cover had gone to smash, too! It would be hard to pick out another child, after having seen Leonie. Perhaps she’d have another opportunity to see the villagers at the meeting on Tuesday evening.
Mrs. Brewster again gave her reluctant, though amused, consent. “If you’ll take a fresh handkerchief with some of that Breathex on it. ...”
“Three of ’em,” promised Cynthia and Nancy together.
“... And come straight home if you find you’re in a draft, or if you start to sneeze.”
“We will,” came the chorus.
Mrs. Brewster laughed. “All right. And I may sound fussy, but a tiny village in a foreign country is no place for one to get ill. Now run along and get ready for your show.”