"And I," he confessed, "have been posing for my portrait. Don't," he pleaded, "laugh at me—it isn't for a miniature or a locket; it's life-size, horribly life-size. I've had to stand, off and on with the rests, three hours a day, and I've done so every day for three weeks."
Mrs. Falconer regarded him with indulgent amusement.
"It's your fault—you took me to see those awful school-girl paintings and pointed out that poor young creature to me." And he was interrupted by her exclamation:
"Oh, how dear of you, Jimmy! how sweet and kind and ridiculous! It won't be fit to be seen."
"Oh, never mind that," he waved; "no one need see it. I haven't—she won't let me."
He had accepted a cup of tea from the lady's hand; he drank it off and sat down, holding the empty cup as if he held his fate.
"Tell me," she urged, "all about it. It was just like you—any other man would have found means to show charity, but you have shown unselfish goodness, and that's the rarest thing in the world. Fancy posing every day! How ghastly and how wonderful of you!"
"No," he said slowly, "it wasn't any of these things. I wanted to do it. It amused me at first, you see. But now I am a little annoyed—rather bothered to tell the truth—He met her eyes with almost an appeal in his. Mrs. Falconer was in kindness bound to help him.
"Bothered? How, pray? With what part of it? You're not chivalrous about it, are you? You're not by the way of feeling that you have compromised her by posing?"
"Oh, no, no," he hurried; "but I do feel, and I am frank to acknowledge, that it was a mistake. Because—do you know—that for some absurd reason I am afraid she has become fond of me." He blushed like a boy. Mrs. Falconer said coldly: