“We’ve been at it a solid three quarters of an hour,” rejoined Markham aggrieved, “and as for not being busy, look at the canvas, man.”
St. John did look; he stood a little way off, and studied it earnestly for several minutes, but he did not speak.
“Well, what do you think of it?” enquired the other.
“I never presume to criticise Jill’s work until it is finished,” he answered. “At present I don’t like it.”
“Neither do I,” acquiesced Jill, “that’s why I was not loth to give up for to-day. It’s the eyes, I think; they have a sinister expression that makes him look like a stage villain. And yet I’m sure the expression was there at the time.”
“I hope not,” St. John rejoined, looking fixedly at his friend in a rather disconcerting manner; “the eyes never lie, you know.”
Jill took the canvas down from the easel and leaned it with its face hidden against the wall.
“Don’t utter uncomfortable platitudes,” she remarked. “If you can’t be more cheerful I hope you’ll retire to your dark room speedily; Mr Markham and I were enjoying ourselves till you came.”
To her surprise he took her literally, and, muttering something about ‘sorry to be a wet blanket,’ wheeled about abruptly and left the room. Jill looked at Markham, and her eyes were both angry and concerned.
“I can’t think what’s the matter with Jack,” she said half apologetically; “he is not often such a bear. Do you know that I think you had almost better not stay this evening. It wouldn’t be very hilarious if he were in that mood, would it?”