It was her first visit to the studio since the new turn of affairs; her multifarious duties as worker among the sick and poor after her day's teaching leaving her so little freedom. They had of course seen each other in the interim; for Wyndham had himself looked in at the "Buildings" in Kensington whenever his engagements had taken him that way, and he had been fortunate enough just to catch her at home for a few moments on several occasions. The poor girl had been overflowing with happiness—had not a window on the skies been opened, too, for her? And though both had so far delicately avoided all reference to that old painful interview, she had yet often been impelled to throw herself at his feet in contrition. Only she felt that he, in his great magnanimity, would be hurt by such an abasement.
When he brought the picture well into the light, her first exclamation was, "Oh, how beautiful!" Then she kissed him impulsively.
The tribute gave him more pleasure than all the professional praise that had been showered on the portrait.
"What a charming girl! I should like to know her," were her next words. "She has such a good face, and I'm sure she's every bit as beautiful as you've painted her."
Wyndham's vexation at his rumoured engagement seemed to take wing and be off into the airs. He even felt a shy pride in Miss Robinson. "I'm sure you'll like her," he said. "Shall I arrange a tea here one of these days before Christmas?"
"That would be lovely." Mary's voice was full of enthusiasm. "School breaks up in a day or two, and I shall have so much more time to myself," she added, still gazing at the picture.
"Any criticism?"
"None," she returned. "You have caught the character with rare genius. She is so simple and unaffected; one could repose absolute trust in her.... You see," she continued, smiling, "I feel so strong an interest in her as being the beginning of your good fortune. I have a sort of conviction—don't laugh at me, please—that it has come to stay."
When he poured out her tea, she suddenly laughed, remembering she had a message for him which she had forgotten to deliver in the absorption of contemplating Miss Robinson; in fact, there was a heap of things she had wanted to talk over. The most important, at any rate, was the question of his Christmas holiday. Aunt Eleanor wanted Mary to spend the two or three weeks with her, but she was anxious that Wyndham, too, should join their little party over the New Year—since she now understood that he had emerged to some extent from his austere seclusion. A refusal Aunt Eleanor would take to heart—she naturally regarded her own home as his, as the place to which his mind should spontaneously turn at such a season.
Wyndham welcomed the invitation. It was more than two years since he had passed any time in Hertfordshire, and the visit itself, which last Christmas he had sullenly avoided, would afford him the greatest satisfaction. Much as he appreciated the Robinson housekeeping, it was a relief to feel definitely that he was not staying the year-end at his studio, with no resource save their cordial hospitality.