He coloured a little. Then he laughed.
“I was rather wild,” he admitted. “Saint John with my face, twentieth century get-up, and a nimbus, was a bit too much.”
“Indeed! I thought it rather clever,” Jill modestly remarked.
“Clever, yes; so it was, no doubt. If it hadn’t been so clever, it wouldn’t have been so annoying.”
“It has gone!” she cried, glancing at the table, though she knew already that it was not there. “You are not taking it with you?”
“Yes,” he answered coolly, “I am.”
“But, Mr St. John,” she remonstrated, “I think that I have some claim to my own work.”
“But, Miss Erskine,” he retorted, “I think that I have some claim to my own portrait.”
“Well, never mind,” said Jill. “I can sketch it again if I want to.”
“Yes,” he replied, “but I don’t think you will.”