“Not yesterday,” said the girl, lifting her clear true eyes to her mother’s. “But to-day I did feel uncomfortable. I noticed his hands and his voice seemed different—not like that of a common man.”
“What did he say?” Mrs Lascelles tried to speak indifferently.
“Oh, he spoke—why, if it were Mr Everitt, he spoke about himself. I asked him, you know.”
“Oh!” Mrs Lascelles might be forgiven for looking anxiously at her daughter’s sweet unconscious lace, and thinking that a man might peril a good deal for a second sight of it.
But Kitty read a certain reproach in the look.
“Mother,”—earnestly—“I hadn’t the smallest suspicion. Of course, I treated him like any other model.”
“Of course,” said her mother, kissing her. “My dear, I am not blaming you in the least. It is only an unfortunate beginning to have this idea troubling one, even if, as I believe, Bell’s imagination has run away with her. I shan’t like to leave you here alone. At any rate, did I understand anything about another model coming in his place?”
“Yes; another man in the same costume.”
“We will stop that, at any rate. We will certainly have no more models of Mr Everitt’s providing, be they who they may. But I don’t want to enter into communication with him; if, if there is anything actual in this absurd idea, he might make it an excuse for forcing an acquaintance upon us. Still, we must stop the model somehow.”
“Yes,” said Kitty sadly, standing before her easel and regarding the unfinished painting with the yearnings of an artist.