“What?” asked Anne.
He started, forgetting that he had spoken aloud.
“I don’t know.”
She smiled a little. “Then I’m afraid you won’t get it.”
“But I have!”
He almost shouted the words, one afternoon a week afterwards, when she had stood patiently almost as long as the daylight lasted.
She looked at him with inquiring eyes, as he threw down his brush.
“I won’t touch it again! It’s there! It’s all right. Mon Dieu! Anne, do you hear me? I’ve painted a great picture.”
He came towards the stand, both hands outstretched, and helped her down.
“Come and look before the light goes,” he urged. “Why Anne——” his triumphant tone changed abruptly to consternation. “You’re not ill, dear? You’re trembling so. What a brute I am! I’ve kept you posing too long. I forgot. Come and sit in this chair. Here’s a cushion. I’ll get you some water.”