"So do I." McTaggart smiled, "but it's not black—it's ... spun sunshine! And the only blue that I can see is a tiny vein near the temple."
"I wonder," said Cydonia desperately, "how much we've made by those Tableaux?"
"Fifteen pounds, four and tuppence."
"Really? ... Not more than that?" She turned a bewildered face toward him.
"Ah ... that's better," said McTaggart. "To tell you the truth," he admitted, "I haven't the faintest idea of the sum. But I was getting tired of your profile." He saw her frown and stopped short.
"All right! I'll be good. But it's such fun, now, isn't it? When I think of the patient Mason matching yards of satin up at Marshall's."
Cydonia laughed. The soft note echoed through the empty room, for the artist had quietly slipped away into a further one beyond.
One quick glance he had given them, and his sensitive mind had received the impression. The girl, with her apple-blossom face, Spring incarnate, wooed by Summer.
"It isn't often I have the chance of your company without Mamma. Don't you ever go to dances?" He watched her lips move as she answered.
"Not yet—but, Peter, I forgot! I've such a lovely piece of news. I'm going to have a birthday party next month ... You'll come, won't you?"