“Then you think that Pippa——” she broke off. She was looking straight at Barnabas.
“I don’t know,” he said bluntly. “The likeness is extraordinary. In Paris I might find out something from the artists for whom she posed. I know one or two of them personally.”
“Thank you,” said Miss Mason. “The journey, of course, will be my affair.”
“That,” said Barnabas, “is pure nonsense. If Pippa—you see, Kostolitz was my friend.”
“But I wish it,” said Miss Mason. And something in her voice made Barnabas give way.
Ten minutes or so later he left the studio.
Before Miss Mason put out her light that night she went across to the heap of cushions and blankets and looked at Pippa. She touched her cheek gently with one wrinkled hand. It was long before Miss Mason slept. She lay awake listening to the regular sound of the child’s breathing.
The morning, with the variability of English weather, broke still and sunny, a touch of frost in the air.
Barnabas looked in at Miss Mason’s studio before he left for Paris.