“Re-paint the dress, and the whole portrait if necessary,” he replied promptly.
“Oh, but the time, and your trouble!” cried Sara. “I couldn’t think of it. Besides, it was my own fault,” she added contritely.
It struck neither of them as odd that they should so implicitly accept Pippa’s criticism.
“I shall only,” said Paul, “be doing what I originally wished to do, if you will forgive me for saying so. The question is whether you will be too bored with further sittings?”
A faint rose-colour stole over the ivory of the Duchessa’s face.
“On the contrary,” she said lightly, “I shall be very happy. I have”—she paused the merest fraction of a second—“not been bored at all.”
She drank her coffee and put down the cup. Pippa got up from her chair. She knew the moment to make herself scarce. Long acquaintance with studios and the work of artists had taught her.
She held out her hand to the Duchessa.
“I like you,” she said. “I like you ver’ much. Please come to tea wis me one day—you and Monsieur Paul.”
“But,” said the Duchessa, “Christopher is coming for me at half-past three.”