With the adroitness of his profession he set his camera up on the telephone stand, posed Tamea where the late afternoon sun shone through the window and photographed her half a dozen times; then, with a promise to Tamea to send her prints, he bowed himself out to have the films developed and write his story.
Dan in the meantime had provided seats for both his visitors.
“So that’s Mark Mellenger,” said Maisie. “I wish he had stayed longer. I have a curiosity to know anybody who loves you, Dan.”
“Old Mel is the salt of the earth,” he declared warmly. “When we were in college together he was editor of the college daily and I was by way of being a cartoonist. In those days we were the heroes of the campus, and thoughtless enthusiasts used to predict for each of us the prompt acquisition of a niche in the Hall of Fame. Mel was to write the great American novel and I was to create riots among millionaires anxious to buy my pictures.” He shrugged ruefully, nor did he note Maisie’s wistful smile as he turned to the radiant Tamea. “I’ll paint you, you tropical goddess,” he soliloquized audibly. “You’ve had a fine time in the shops today, eh, my dear?”
“It was very wonderful, Dan Pritchard.”
Dan turned to Maisie. “You’re so good and kind, Maisie, and your taste is always so exquisite. In this instance it is more than exquisite. It is exotic.”
“I cannot claim credit for it, Dan. All I did was bring Tamea to the best shops. What she is wearing is entirely of her own selection.”
“But, Maisie, how could she?”
“You forget that Tamea is half French. She has been born with a positive genius for artistic adornment.”
He and Tamea exchanged approving smiles. “And is our Tamea an extravagant girl?” he queried.