“Like a flower in a vase,” he said; “to me you’re a wonderful creature.”
“I’m glad you like me,” Nancy said, quivering a little. “This is a rather uncommon experience to me, you know, being looked at so impersonally. Now please don’t say that I’m being American.”
“But, good God! I don’t look at you impersonally.”
“Don’t you?” Nancy meant her voice to be light, and she was appalled to hear the quaver in it.
“You know I don’t.” He glanced toward a dun-colored curtain evidently concealing shelves and dishes. “Let’s have some tea.”
“I can’t stay for tea.” Nancy felt her lips begin to quiver childishly, but she could not control their trembling. “Oh! I had better go,” she said.
Collier Pratt took one step toward her. Then he turned toward the canvas. Nancy read his mind like a flash.
“You’re afraid you’ll disturb the—what you want to paint,” she said accusingly.
“I am.” He smiled his sweet slow smile, then 165 he took her stiff interlaced hands and raised them, still locked together, to his lips where he kissed them gently, one after the other. “Will you forgive me?” he asked, and pushed her gently outside of his studio door.