“We must be very careful not to drop the shavings. The curator would make a terrible row about it. Now that we seem to be alone, with a knife in our possession, we might cut this portrait out of its frame and you could take it home to study at your leisure. Rolled up, you could carry it right out of the front door, and the newspapers would have a seven days’ wonder, the stolen Sargent! There! Not a bad job if I do say it myself.”
He handed her the pencil and took from her the paper with its shavings and lead dust.
“Now, it’s only fair that I should have your sketch for my trouble! I shall keep it as a slight souvenir—of the beginning—of our acquaintance——”
He was folding it carefully to hold the litter, and he glanced up to find that she had flushed angrily.
“Give it to me, please.”
“But really——”
“Give it to me!”
“I beg your pardon.”
She held out her hand and he placed the little packet in her palm. It was, he saw, a hand that had known labour. It was a long hand and a hand of strength, and as he was mindful of such matters, it impressed itself upon his memory.
“Thank you,” she said, and turned away.