“I’m glad.”
“I might paint you again,—like this. No, I swear I won’t. I got the thing itself down on canvas. I’ll never try to paint you again.”
“Is—that flattering?”
“Supremely.”
“When am I going to have my picture?” she asked after another interlude. “Do you want me to send for it?”
“I can’t give you the picture,” he said. “I intended to if I had done merely a portrait, but I can’t part with this. It has got to make my fame and fortune.”
“I thought I was to have it,” Nancy said. “I—I—” then she felt she was being ungenerous, unworthy, “but I couldn’t take it, of course, it’s too valuable.”
“Please God.”
“It would be wonderful, wouldn’t it, if my picture did make you famous!”