It was better, but even she could see that it was by no means perfect.
“Can’t you come to-morrow?” he begged.
“No. I don’t see how I can. You see—”
“Then the next day. We’ve got to get it right, haven’t we.... If I am going to give you this thing I want it to be as good as I can make it.”
She clasped her hands. “You are going to give it to me?” she repeated.
“Of course I am. I’ll probably want to show it a little first. One of my teachers—oh, he is a corker!—I wish you could see his stuff—has a summer studio in Wapatomac and he must have a look at it, sure. But, after that, it is going to be yours—if you want it.”
“Want it! I should love it! But—but I don’t see how it can ever be mine. I live with Uncle Foster and—well, you know.”
He frowned. “That’s so,” he admitted. “I suppose there would be the deuce to pay if he knew I painted it for you. Don’t suppose he would want it himself, do you? I needn’t give it to him, but you could.”
Her eyes flashed. “Why—why, that would be—it might be just the thing!” she exclaimed. “His birthday is the third of next month and—and I could give it to him as a birthday present, couldn’t I? He says he wants a new photograph of me, and this is ever so much better than a photograph. Of course, as you painted it, and you are a Cook, he might not—”
Bob broke in. “It might help to show him that the Cooks are good for something, after all,” he suggested, laughing but eager. “It might—why, by George!—Esther, if we can get it just right, it might help to soften down this family row of ours a little bit. If it did—well, it looks to me as if it were worth trying.”