"You're going to do her in oil," declared his aunt, stoutly.
"I am? Then I must have that table, sure. And a nargileh. And a dozen Japanese swords, if you happen to have them about the place. And what else?—oh yes; a small bit of canvas, now I think of it."
Bertie looked round once more, and divined herself under discussion. She sidled away, past a long row of landscapes and marines, and drifted out into the hall, where she leaned over the balustrade and studied the mosaics of the vestibule below.
"Good little subject," said one of the students, looking after her. He ran a sudden hand upward through his hair, which had lately fallen from its high estate and had come to look like the hair of anybody else. "Get that profile against a red plush curtain—"
"And drape her in a red silk kimono or something."
"And have a vase of Jacqueminots to one side—a study in reds, you know."
"Yes, I know, you know." He turned on his heel. "Well, this ain't work, or anything like it. Come along up-stairs."
And up-stairs they went—through the main hallway.
Lydia Rhodes followed her protegee with a fond eye. "You know, Truesdale, that she's just the sweetest little thing in the world."
"Oh, yes, I know."