“I’m going to paint her out,” said Tootles, as savagely as though he had said, “I’m going to have her blood.”
He flung away the knife, and, with an exclamation of delight, sprang for his brushes. In five minutes, in place of the glowing complexion of Pansy the tantalizing, the swarthy, copper-colored hue of an Ethiopian emerged!
“Good heavens, what have you done now?” exclaimed Millie, aghast.
“I have blotted her image forever from my memory!” said Tootles.
“You’ve ruined it,” said Millie, wringing her hands. “I didn’t mean to tell you—honest, I didn’t!”
Tootles, without conveying to her how easily the transformation could be effected back to the Caucasian, assumed the air of one chastened by suffering and said nobly:
“It is over. I thank you.”
Meanwhile, O’Leary had followed Myrtle into the hall, rather puzzled by the anxiety he had read in her look, not at all annoyed at being quarreled over by two pretty women.
“Suppose she’s going to make a scene, too,” he thought.
But, to his surprise, Myrtle, without seeming to have taken the slightest notice of what had just passed, said directly,