"Maryon!" Her lips moved protestingly.
"I think you've got the shortest upper lip of any woman I know," he said, calmly releasing her and going back to his easel. "And women with short upper lips are the very devil."
He sketched rapidly for a time.
Her pose at the moment was practically perfect—the small head tilted a little on the long round throat, while the slanting rays of the sun turned the dusky hair into a shadowy, gold-flecked nimbus.
Rooke worked on in silence, though once as he looked across at her he caught his underlip suddenly betwixt his teeth. She was so utterly desirable—the curve of her cheek, the grace of her lissom body, the faint blue veins that showed beneath the warm, ivory skin. And she was going to be Trenby's wife!
"There!" he said abruptly. "That's the idea at last. Tomorrow we'll begin the portrait itself."
Nan rose, stretching her arms above her head.
"I'm sure I shall die of fatigue, Maryon," she observed, coming round to his side to inspect the sketch.
"Nonsense! I shall allow due intervals for rest and—mental refreshment. What do you think of it?"
"I look rather—attractive"—impertinently.