“That's too bad. But then, it doesn't take up all your time, and it doesn't cause you such an endless deal of worry and discouragement as painting does. You have plenty of time left in which to read, and see your friends, and enjoy life.”
“Oh, no, I don't. You have no idea how many miserable little things there are to be done. And we only keep one servant. And she's so stupid that I have to be standing over her all day long. It's like a regular business—almost.”
She had thrown a good deal of feeling into these utterances; had emphasized them by bending forward, and lifting her face toward her hearer's; and by this time she was completely out of pose.
Didn't she think she'd like to rest a little now? Elias asked.
She thought she would like to, for a few minutes, she said; and getting up, she crossed over and looked at Elias's canvas. All she could see were a few straggling charcoal lines.
“Oh,” she queried, “is that the way you begin?”
“Yes; I must sketch every thing in in black, first.”
“But how long will that take?”
“That depends upon how often you let me come.”
“Well, if you come every Sunday?”