He called me a little tyrant, but it was a tyranny he liked, for he yielded to it with an ardour and alacrity that betrayed him. He placed me in the attitude he wanted—sitting by the window, with a book on my lap— and began at once. I saw he was quite in his element again; and when, after a long sitting, we both rested, I said to him, a little reproachfully:
"You like it more than ever, Cornelius. I see it in your face."
"It does not annoy you?" he asked, giving me an uneasy look.
"Annoy me, Cornelius! Have you forgotten Daisy?"
"Ah! but she was a sickly child: and for the merry young girl to be shut up—"
"She does not mind being shut up the whole day long, provided it be with
Cornelius."
"Who, when once he is at his easel, has scarcely a word or a look to give her."
"She does not want him to give her words or looks. She wants him to paint a fine picture, than which, she thinks, there is nothing finer; and to become a great painter, than which, she believes, there is nothing greater."
"Indeed, then, there is not," he replied, laughing and reddening, and his brown eyes kindling with sudden, though lingering light. "Oh, Daisy!" he added, after a pause, laying his two hands on my shoulders, and looking down at me intently, "what a fine, generous little creature you are!"
"Because I do not mind sitting," I replied, smiling. "You forget.
Cornelius, I always liked it. Let us return to it, and surprise Kate."