"I'll wait till he's had it," thought Pamela. "He'll be in an extra good mood then."
She went downstairs and chatted with him while he had his tea, and did her best to put him in as pleasant a mood as possible. She laughed at his jokes longer than they deserved, and encouraged him to talk; he was always happy when talking; and she kept an eye on the children so that they did nothing to annoy him. Frequently she would glance up at the clock, anxious to assure herself that Elizabeth was not due home yet.
At length, when Tom Bagg had finished his tea and had got out his pipe and tobacco pouch, she felt that her opportunity had arrived. She rose, and with rapidly beating heart went upstairs to the studio and fetched the firelight picture down. Without a word she placed it on a chair before the old cabman, who watched her movements with curious surprise. The little Baggs pressed forward and clustered round the picture, gazing in astonishment. For a second or two there was dead silence in the room.
"It's Daddy," said one of the children.
"An' us!" cried another shrilly.
"Your sister painted it," said Pamela to Tom Bagg.
Then they all began to talk at once—all, that is, except old Tom Bagg. Throughout the noisy interlude that followed he remained silent, staring at the picture. Pamela watched his face anxiously.
Presently he scratched the bald spot on the top of his head, and said quietly:
"Well, I'm blowed!"
He had never seen any of Elizabeth's portrait studies before, and was filled with astonishment.