“But why not?” she asked. “It is too good to lose. You never had such a model in your life before.”
“No,” he answered grudgingly.
The hand with which Rebecca held the sketch dropped. She turned her attention to her lover, and a speculative interest grew in her face.
“That girl”—she said slowly, after a mental summing up occupying a few seconds—“that girl irritates you—irritates you.”
He laughed faintly.
“I believe she does,” he replied; “yes, 'irritates' is the word to use.”
And yet if this were true, his first act upon returning home was a singular one.
He was rather late, but the girl Lodusky was sitting in the moonlight at the door. He stopped and spoke to her.
“If I should wish to paint you,” he said rather coldly, “would you do me the favor of sitting to me?”
She did not answer him at once, but seemed to weigh his words as she looked out across the moonlight.