“Of course.”
“Then why do we rest so often? I’m not easily deceived. The fine frenzy is lacking, Mr. Burnett—isn’t it so?”
For reply he held out his paint-smudged hands.
“No—no,” she went on. “You’re painting timidly with the tips of your fingers—not in the least like the ‘Agatha.’ I’m sure you’re doing me early-Victorian.”
Burnett stopped painting, looked at his canvas and laughed. “Oh, it’s hardly that,” he said.
“Won’t you prove it?”
“How?”
“By letting me look.” She rose from her chair, got down from the throne and took a rapid step or two towards the easel. But Burnett’s broad shoulders barred the way.
“Please,” she urged.
“I can’t, really.”