“Yes, indeed, dreadful,” she assented.
“You spent it in the country, I suppose?”
“Oh, no; we staid in the city.”
“Ah, did you? So did I.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes.”
He waited for her to go on, but she did not go on. With a sense of deep discouragement, he concluded that he had entered a cul-de-sac. He must begin anew, and upon another topic.
Presently, “I hope you are not getting tired,” he said. “Don't hesitate to rest as often as you like.”
“Oh, thank you, no; I'm not tired yet,” she answered.
“Generally,” he announced, standing off, closing one eye, and taking an observation over the end of his crayon, “generally people who aren't used to it, find sitting very irksome; and even regular models, whose business it is, want to get up every now and then, and stretch themselves. But the painter himself never wearies.”