He did not open the letter, but continued to look in her eyes, at which she turned about half shyly. “I heard your violin; that’s how I knew you were up here. Oh! Have you been painting on it again?”
“On my violin? No, I’ve been playing on it.”
“No! Painting on the picture of your old man. I think 75 you have it too drawn out and thin. He’s too hollow there under the cheek bone.”
“Is he, Miss Critic? Well, thank your stars you’re not.”
“I know. I’m too fat.” She rubbed her cheek until it was redder than ever.
“What are you painting your cheeks for? There’s color enough on them as they are.”
She made a little mouth at him. “I could paint your old man as well as that, I know.”
“I know you could. You could paint him far better than that.”
She laughed, quickly repentant. “I didn’t say that to be horrid. I only said it for fun. I couldn’t.”
“And I know you could.” He rose and stood without his crutch, looking down on her. “And you’re not ‘too long drawn out,’ are you? See? You only come up to––about––here on me.” He measured with his hand a little below his chin.