“Oh, we weren't discussing your character. Men don't gossip, you know. We were talking about having your portrait painted. I've made arrangements with Mr. Bacharach to have him paint your portrait.”
“Oh!” Christine exclaimed. Her brown eyes opened wide, and her cheeks reddened slightly.
“And the question is,” Redwood pursued, “when will you give him the first sitting?”
“Why, that is for you to say, father.”
“Well, then, I say Sunday morning. How does that strike you, Mr. Bacharach?”
“Oh, any time will be agreeable to me,” replied Elias.
“Well, Chris, shall we make it Sunday morning?”
“Just as you please.”
“All right. Note that, Mr. Bacharach. Sunday morning, December third. I suppose you'd better send your apparatus—easel, and so forth—in advance, hadn't ye?”
“Yes; I'll send them to-morrow.”