“Go!” he repeated, in alarm. “Of course you’re not going yet! Why, what I really wanted you to come here for was to pose for me just a little. The mouth—and the eyes—why, you can see for yourself they’re not right. Now, can’t you?”
She hesitated. “Well,” she admitted, “of course they are not just like mine, but—”
He interrupted. “But we’ll make ’em like yours,” he vowed. “Now you sit down over there—on that chair, where I can get the light as it is in the photograph. The chair is a good deal of a wreck, like about everything else in this ruin, but I guess it will hold you. You see, I want to get—”
And now she interrupted. “Oh, no, I mustn’t!” she protested, hurriedly. “I mustn’t stay, really. Please don’t ask me to.”
“But I do ask you. I’ve got to ask you. This is by miles the best thing I’ve ever done and I want to make it as near perfect as I can. Oh, say, Esther; you’ll give me my chance, won’t you? I don’t believe it will take very long.”
She hesitated. It seemed cruel to refuse.
“We-ll,” she yielded, “if you are sure it won’t? Just a few minutes—”
So the posing began. She sat in the wobbly chair, the afternoon sunshine streaming in through the cobwebbed window, while he painted at top speed, chatting all the time. He told of his struggles with his beloved studies, of his hopes and ambitions, and gradually drew her into talking of her own. At last she sprang to her feet.
“There!” she cried. “I must not stay another second. It is—oh, good gracious! It is after four now. Where has the time gone?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know,” he replied. “Well, there! it isn’t right yet—we must have some more sittings—but it is better. Don’t you think so?”