“No, now, please!” His tone had a hint of imperiousness.
She leaned forward with the faintest possible suggestion of indulgence, such as one might show to a child, and gave it to him.
He took it in silence, studied it at first casually, then more closely, with growing interest, finally looked up at her.
“You ought to find a ready market for this sort of thing. It’s exquisite.”
She coloured then vividly, almost painfully, and the man’s eyes kindled, watching her.
“Do you really think that?” she asked in a low voice.
“Of course I do. It isn’t to my interest to say it, is it? You’ve mistaken your vocation.”
He smiled with the words and gave her back the sketch.
“It isn’t a paying game—except for the chosen few. But I believe I could find you a market for this sort of thing. I had no idea you were so talented.”
“It has always been my pastime,” said Frances rather wistfully. “But I couldn’t make a living at it.”