“Too proud, I reckon. I thought you’d come for to look at your decorations, anyways; let’s go right along there; you ain’t lookin’ as smart as a cricket, that’s a fact; I’ll make you a glass o’ real nice grog to pick you up some.”
He shook his head. “I’m going away—I’m off to Economy.”
“Scat! You want to give me the mitten. Why don’t you speak straight? You don’t like me.”
She looked at him, half provoked, half provokingly.
He looked at her with his frank, boyish gaze; he noted the red curve of her pouting lips, the subtle light in her eyes, the warm coloring of the skin, shadowed at the neck by waves of soft brown hair, in which the beads of a chenille net glistened bluishly; he was pleasured by the brave note of the red feather against the shining black of the toque, the piquant relation of the toque to the face, and he thought how delightful it would be to transfer all these tones and shades to canvas. He forgot to answer her; he tried to store up the complex image in his memory.
“I’m glad you don’t deny it,” she said, her angry face belying her words.
He started. “Oh yes, I like you well enough,” he said, awkwardly.
Her face softened archly. “Then why don’t you come an’ see me? I won’t bite you!”
“I’m sorry! I’m sailing to-night.”
“I guess you ain’t!” She smiled imperious solicitation. “What are you goin’ to do in Economy? Why don’t you stick to the paint-shop?”