And then:
“The face is of the East—the Slav—did you choose her for that character?”
“Not at all. She was—er—just—just a sitter—a commission, you know.”
“How interesting!”
They had made the rounds of the room and were now facing the portrait again.
“It was lucky to have so good a model,” he continued. “One doesn’t always. Have you ever posed, Miss Darrow?”
“I? No, never. Father has been trying to get me painted this winter. But I’ve been so busy—and then we’re going South in two weeks—so we haven’t been able to manage it.”
“What a pity!” The subtle sparkle had died in his eyes, which from the shadow of their heavy lashes were regarding hers intently.
“You’re very kind. Would you really like to paint me?” said Miss Darrow. “Suppose I said you should. I want my portrait done. If you make me half as wonderful as Agatha, I shall die happy. Won’t you come in to-morrow at five? We can talk it over. I must be going now. No, not now, to-morrow. Au revoir.” She gave him her hand with a friendly nod, and threaded her way through the crowd, leaving Burnett staring at the card she had left in his hand.