“I suppose I am; I have begun a portrait of her.”
“What, another! You never finish anything. I shan't have that when I come and sit for you. I shall make you finish my portrait.”
“Ah, yes; when you come and sit. But, joking apart, when will you come? I should so like to show you my studio. It really looks very nice now. When will you come?”
“I have no time.”
“Why not come next Sunday; it is your Sunday off.”
“What would Maggie say if she found me there? She'd have my eyes out.”
“If she did find it out she'd know you came to sit; but as a matter of fact she'd know nothing about it. You come and lunch with me about twelve—they're all in church about that time.”
“And you never go to church, you wicked boy. I don't know that I dare trust myself with you.”
A scruple jarred the even strain of his desire to paint Lizzie's portrait, but his scruple vanished in one of her sweet sunny smiles, and he gave her all information about the train she would have to take to reach Southwick by twelve o'clock.
He ordered some delicacies in the way of potted meats, and there was a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice when she arrived.