"I should say I do," he cried warmly. "For my own pleasure and satisfaction, you understand. There's nothing I'd like better."
"We'll see how successfully you flatter Hetty," said she. "If it is possible to make her prettier than she really is, you may paint me. I shall be the first to fall at your feet and implore you to make me beautiful."
His eyes gleamed. "If I fail in that," said he warmly, "it will be because I am without integrity."
Again she smiled upon him with half-closed, shadowy eyes, and shook her head. Then she arose.
"Let us go in. Hetty is eager to see you again."
They started up the terrace. His face clouded.
"I have had a feeling all along that she'd rather not have this portrait painted, Mrs. Wrandall. A queer sort of feeling that she doesn't just like the idea of being put on canvas."
"Nonsense," she said, without looking at him.
"Of course, I could understand her not caring to give up the time to it. It's a nuisance, I know. But it isn't that sort of feeling I have about her attitude. There's something else. Doesn't she like me?"
"Of course she does," she exclaimed. "How ridiculous. She will love it, once the picture is under way. It is the beginning of it that disturbs her. Isn't that always the way?"