“Oh, it will take three or four weeks—may be more.”
“And then, how long before the picture will be finished?”
“I can't tell exactly; but if we only have one sitting a week, probably not till spring.”
“Oh,” she said, and said it with an inflection which Elias construed to be that of disappointment.
“Why, did you wish to have it finished earlier?” he asked.
“Oh, no; I don't care about that. I wasn't thinking of that,” she answered, but still with an inflection which made Elias feel that her contentment had been disturbed. He wondered whether he had said any thing indiscreet, any thing to hurt or to offend her. He could remember nothing.
She resumed her pose. He could not have told what it was, but there was something in her bearing which prompted him to ask: “Is the position uncomfortable?” and to urge: “Don't sit any more to-day, if you would rather not.”
“Oh, no; the position isn't uncomfortable. I'd just as soon sit,” was her reply, in the same unhappy tone of voice.
Now, what could the matter be? What had happened to annoy her?
“Please, Miss Redwood,” Elias pleaded, “please be frank with me. Perhaps I am keeping you from something?”