"You do. Only I could suggest a substitute for the word 'rather.'"
Her eyes defied him.
"Could you? . . . What would it be?"
Before he could make any answer, there came a sound of voices close at hand, and a minute later Trenby and Isobel Carson appeared from round the corner of a high box hedge.
"We've been farming," announced Isobel. "I've been looking at Roger's prize sheep and cattle. I mean"—with a laughing, upward glance at her companion—"at the ones that are going to be his prize sheep and cattle as soon as they come under the judged eye. Then we thought we'd motor across and inspect the portrait. How's it going, Mr. Rooke?"
"The portrait isn't yet begun, Miss Carson," he replied blandly.
"It seems to take a long time to get under way," she retorted. "Is it so difficult to make a start? Surely not—for the great Mr. Rooke!"—with delicate mockery.
There was a perpetual warfare between herself and Rooke. She was the kind of woman he cordially detested—the pseudo sporting, outdoor type, with a strong tendency towards the feline—"Neither male nor female created He them," as he had once said. And when Rooke disliked man or woman he took small pains to conceal the fact. Isobel had winced, more than once, under the lash of his caustic tongue.
"I've made a start, Miss Carson, as these sketches testify"—waving his arm towards them. "But some subjects require very much more delicate handling than—others would do." And his half-closed eyes swept her insolently from head to foot.
Isobel reddened and her mouth took on a somewhat disagreeable expression.