June shook her head. “No interference,” was her last word.
Nevertheless, the following morning saw a division of labour within the precincts of No. 46, New Cross Street. When June came downstairs at a quarter to seven, she found a young man on his knees vigorously polishing the kitchen grate. He was sans coat, waistcoat and collar; there was a smudge on the side of his nose, and as the temper of a lady is apt to be short at so early an hour, it was no wonder that he was rebuked crushingly.
“Didn’t I say I wouldn’t have interference? I don’t come into your studio and look for windmills, do I?”
William, still on his knees, had penitently to own that she didn’t.
“It’s—it’s a great liberty,” said June, hotly.
He looked up at her with an air to disarm the Furies. “Oh—please—no!”
“What is it then?” Secretly she was annoyed with herself for not being as much annoyed as the case demanded. “What is it then? Coming into my kitchen with your interference.”
“I’m ever so sorry, but——”
“But what?”
“I simply can’t bear to think of your spoiling your beautiful hands.”