'I wish you'd always think so!' he cried. 'Why, of course it's near. I'm only seven hours away. What's that, in these days? And in three months' time, things will be all right and square again.'
'I dare say,' she said, sighing.
'Why can't you wait cheerfully?' he asked, rather exasperated—'instead of being so down.'
'Because'—she broke out—'I don't see the reason of it—there! No, I don't!—However!'—she pressed back her hair from her eyes and drew herself together. 'You've never shown me your studies of that—that lady—John; you said you would.'
Relieved at the change of subject, he took a sketch-book out of his pocket and gave it to her. It contained a number of 'notes' for his portrait of Madame de Pastourelles—sketches of various poses, aspects of the head and face, arrangements of the hands, and so forth. Phoebe pondered it in silence.
'She's pretty—I think,' she said, at last, doubtfully.
'I'm not sure that she is,' said Fenwick. 'She's very pale.'
'That doesn't matter. The shape of her face is awfully pretty—and her eyes. Is her hair like mine?'
'No, not nearly so good.'
'Ah, if I could only do it as prettily as she does!' said Phoebe, faintly smiling. 'I suppose, John, she's very smart and fashionable?'