“He might know more about it than most doctors. But when all is said and done what a pitiful little your surgeon knows about the heart.”
“What a pitiful little anyone knows,” she answered.
The hum of the doctor’s talk went on. Barnes, as he watched the girl, caught her gaze.
“I wonder what sort of a picture you are painting of me?” he asked. “I see you dipping the brush of your long lashes into the pigment of your eyes.”
“You may be sure that whatever it is, it is not for exhibition.”
“I should be half afraid to view it, if it were.”
“Doubtless you would criticise it. But it is not half done.”
“Sometimes one best catches the truth in a half-finished work.”
“Not as a maid paints.”
“How does a maid paint?”