“Ah!” rejoined Jill queerly. “My mistake again. Evie has a mystifying way of showing her kindness, but doubtless she means well. You, I suppose, understand her better than I do, but I shouldn’t advise you to try arranging an excursion for three.”
“Very well,” he returned, “I won’t go with her again. I wouldn’t have to-day if I had thought it would annoy you. We were like brother and sister always and it was pleasant for me to see her again.”
Jill heaved a deep sigh, and leaned her forehead against the window pane. She knew that he had no intention of wounding her feelings yet these unconscious allusions to the sacrifice that he had made in marrying her hurt her more than they need have done. And St. John never guessed. Not for a moment had he regretted the step he had taken, and it did not occur to him that Jill should imagine he might.
“I am not annoyed,” she said after a brief pause. “I am irritable this evening, that’s all. Mr Markham said that I wasn’t looking well; perhaps I am a little out of sorts. Are the pictures good this year, Jack?”
“Good enough. But none of them to come up to yours in my eyes as I told Evie. It’s scandalous to think that real talent should get overlooked, yet it’s often enough the case.”
“Mr Markham,” jerked out Jill suddenly, “wishes me to paint his portrait.”
St. John laughed.
“Markham is getting vain,” he said. “No doubt he purposes presenting it to Evie. When is the first sitting to be?”
“I don’t know, nothing is definitely settled, I thought I would speak to you about it first.”
St. John looked at her in astonishment.