"See here, Sara, I'm going to get this off my chest," he said bluntly. "I've been thinking it over all week. I don't like this portrait painting nonsense."
"Dear me! Didn't you suggest it?" she inquired innocently, but all the time her heart was beating violent time to the song of triumph.
He was jealous. It was what she wanted, what she had hoped for all along. Her purpose now was to encourage the ugly flame that tortured him, to fan it into fury, to make it unendurable. She knew him well: his supreme egoism could not withstand an attack upon its complacency. Like all the Wrandalls, he had the habit of thinking too well of himself. He possessed a clearly-defined sense of humour, but it did not begin to include self-sacrifice among its endowments. He had never been able to laugh at himself for the excellent reason that some things were truly sacred to him.
She realised this, and promptly laughed at him. He stiffened.
"Don't snicker, Sara," he growled. He took time to light his cigarette, and at the same time to consider his answer to her question. "In a way, yes. I suggested a sort of portrait, of course. A sketchy thing, something like that, you know. But not an all-summer operation."
"But she doesn't mind," explained Sara. "In fact, she is enjoying it. She and Mr. Booth get on famously together."
"She likes him, eh?"
"Certainly. Why shouldn't she like him? He is adorable."
He threw his cigarette over the railing. "Comes here every day, I suppose?"
"My dear Leslie, he is to do me as soon as he has finished with her. I don't like your manner."