"Why don't you go into the business?" asked his aunt, impulsively, as she placed a cajoling hand upon his arm.
"The business? So I might. Well, you may pay me a hundred dollars for this commission, if you like!"
"You know what I mean—your father's business. Now that they are making it all over, they might easily find a place for you."
"Um," observed Truesdale, falling into a gloomy and chilling reserve.
His aunt saw the necessity of abandoning this new ground at once. "You'll take pains, won't you?" she said, struggling back to her former position. "You'll make it as nice as you can?"
"Well, it will be a sort of sketch, of course," said Truesdale, still rather coldly.
"It won't, either," insisted his aunt; "it will be a real, regular picture."
"She'd get tired of it. Do you think it's any fun to pose?"
"Tired!" said his aunt, scornfully. She thrust the supposition into the outer darkness and slammed the door behind it. "How are you going to dress her?" she asked, passing on with a resolute swiftness to detail. "If you want anything of mine … I've got a lovely breadth of old gold satin; and then there are those Roman pearls you brought me."
"Dress her? I sha'nt dress her at all. I don't believe I shall want any of your rugs, either. If they are on the floor, keep them there; that's where they belong. No; I shall just put her before a plain wall in her every-day clothes—the black hat and jacket she's wearing now. Won't that do well enough?"