"And I lost it! Well, I've paid for it every day of my life," he said shortly. "And twice a day since your engagement," he added, with one of those odd touches of whimsicality which were liable to cross even his moments of deep feeling, giving a sense of unreality to them—a something insincere.
"To get back to the picture—" suggested Nan.
He laughed.
"We can't get back—seeing we've never got there at all yet. These"—with a gesture to the various sketches littering the lawn—"are merely preliminary. When I begin the portrait itself, we'll retire indoors. I think the music-room here will answer the purpose of a studio very well."
"Two whole weeks!" observed Nan meditatively. "I fancy Roger will be somewhat surprised that progress is so slow."
"Trenby? Pooh! It's not his picture. I shall have to explain to him"—smiling—"that art is long."
"He'll get fidgety about it. You see, already we've stayed at home several times when the others have arranged a picnic expedition."
"Choosing the better part," he retorted. "I should like to make one more attempt this afternoon, if you're not too tired. See, your arms . . . so! And I want your face the least bit tilted."
He put his hand very gently beneath her chin, posing her head as he wished it. For a moment he held her so, her face cupped in his hand, while his hazel eyes stared down at her with a smouldering fire in their depths.
Slowly the hot colour crept into her face beneath his scrutiny.