I was so interested in listening to him and watching him work that I had forgotten what I had come to see him about.
Mr. Sands laughed.
“You would starve on that here even if you could make it, which I doubt. In Montreal you had your home and friends. It’s a different matter here altogether.”
I felt as I once did when, as a child, I climbed to the top of a cherry tree, and Charles had taken away the ladder, and I tried to climb down without it. I kept repeating desperately:
“I won’t go back! I tell you, I won’t! No, no, nothing will induce me to go back!”
I gathered up all my paintings. I felt distracted and friendless. Mr. Sands had returned to his painting and he seemed to have forgotten me. I saw the model watching me, and she leaned over and said something in a whisper to Mr. Sands. He put his palette down again and said:
“Come, Miss St. Denis. This will do for to-day. We all need a bit of refreshment. Miss Ascough looks tired.”
I was, and hungry, too. I had had no lunch, for I lost so much time looking for Mr. Sands’ studio.