“If it’s carroty I’ll never speak to you again. Please make it auburn, Mr. Burnett.”
He only worked the more rapidly. He seemed to be dipping into every color upon the palette, in the center of which had grown a brown of the color of walnut-juice. This he was applying vigorously to the lower part of the canvas. When the palette was cleared he put it aside and sank back in a chair with a sigh.
“Rest,” said the artist.
“I’m not in the least tired,” she replied.
“But I am. It takes it out of me to be so interested.”
“Does it?” She leaned back in her chair, regarding him with a new curiosity. “Do you know,” she added, “you are full of surprises——”
She ignored the inquiry of his upraised brows.
“——and paint,” she finished with a laugh.
He ruefully eyed a discolored thumb. “I’m awfully untidy, I know. I’ve always been. In Paris they called me Slovenly Peter.”