"Don't tell my cousin Judy," I said. "She would believe it was Miss
Clare."
"There isn't much danger," he returned. "Even if I knew your cousin, I should not be likely to mention such an incident in her hearing."
"Could it have been she?" said Percivale thoughtfully.
"Absurd!" said Roger. "Miss Clare is a lady, wherever she may live."
"I don't know," said his brother thoughtfully; "who can tell? It mightn't have been beer she was carrying."
"I didn't say it was beer," returned Roger. "I only said it was a beer-jug,—one of those brown, squat, stone jugs,—the best for beer that I know, after all,—brown, you know, with a dash of gray."
"Brown jug or not, I wish I could get a few sittings from her. She would make a lovely St. Cecilia," said my husband.
"Brown jug and all?" asked Roger.
"If only she were a little taller," I objected.
"And had an aureole," said my husband. "But I might succeed in omitting the jug as well as in adding the aureole and another half-foot of stature, if only I could get that lovely countenance on the canvas,—so full of life and yet of repose."