“Pippa?” queried the Duchessa, with the tiniest and most adorable lift of her eyebrows.
“Just Pippa,” said Paul.
Sara sat down. “Finish your coffee,” she said. “And may I have a cup?”
Paul seized the kettle. It was the first time she would have partaken of food or drink in his studio. It marked, in his mind, an epoch.
“Don’t make fresh coffee,” she begged.
“It is a pleasure,” he said. “It is one of the few achievements of which I am justly proud.”
Pippa was gazing at the Duchessa with wide grey eyes. The perplexity in them had vanished.
“Well, Pippa,” asked Sara, “and what do you think of my portrait?”
“I know now,” said Pippa firmly. “Ze couleur is wrong.”
Paul, who was stirring the coffee in a jug, paused a moment to look at her.