There was a pause for effect.
“What a height,” said Paul admiringly, watching her face. “What happened next?”
“When vey got vere,” went on the voice solemnly, “you bet vey wanted to see round. But God said, ‘Not to-day, I guess I’m busy. It’s my last day up here.’ It was. ’Cos ve next day—God died. Isn’t vat a nice story?”
No trace of a dimple. Paul was exasperated.
“Not a bit a nice story,” he said sternly. “And God couldn’t die.”
She put her head on one side and looked at him.
“Well, not weally, of course. But ve little dog an’ ve little duck had never seen anybody die, an’ vey wanted to. So God showed them.” She was laughing at him now in childish triumph, a very imp of mischief.
“Eureka!” cried Paul. And his brush flew to the canvas. Such are the trials and triumphs of portrait painters.
“Come and look at it,” said Paul after ten minutes.
She scrambled down from the chair and platform and came round. A small mocking face of pure wickedness looked at her from the canvas. Her own.