“Why do you look at me so?”
“I’m thinking, wondering many things about you, Inga,” he said.
She looked into his eyes swiftly a moment and then turned hurriedly away, busying herself with the stowing of her easel, for the light had died out in the overcast sky of April showers, and the afternoon’s work was over.
“Suppose we wander up into Harlem, where the new Jewish quarter might give us some types, and try our luck for dinner,” he said, watching the lightness of her movements, the grace of her pliant back as she stooped, the flitting note of the green stockings.
“It’s showery,” she said doubtfully.
“All the better fun, tramping in the rain.”
“Want me to get ready?”
“Not yet—come here!”
He came back, drying his hands, still in his loose working-costume, a serious light in his eyes.