“Yes, I think so, this time. But he needs a good many sittings.... Do you like Frank Hamilton?”
“I never thought about it. Yes, I suppose he’s all right for an artist. Well, I must go now. I daresay I shan’t be away many hours.”
“Gilbert,” she said pleadingly, “don’t go. You are not fit, really. If you don’t want to stop in bed, stay here with me and read some books, or if your eyes hurt, I’ll read to you. There’s such an amusing biography here.”
He shook her hand off his coat-sleeve and went towards the door. “I’m too restless, Claudia. Tell Neeburg I had to go.”
He was gone, and Claudia walked back to her desk. Though various thoughts were buzzing through her head, inflammatory, rebellious thoughts, she completed the list of undesirables and requested the honour of their company at dinner. Most of the stodgy ones were friends of Gilbert’s family and good and worthy men at the Bar, with their good and worthy wives.
At last Claudia laid down her pen and took up the telephone. Frank’s voice answered her at the other end.
“I say, I told you I couldn’t come this afternoon for the sitting. But I find I can, after all. Is it still convenient?”
“Yes, and I’m delighted to hear it. I haven’t seen you for three whole days—an eternity!”
“What a pretty speech!” mocked Claudia; “but I’ve got the grain of salt here.”
“You can laugh at me if you like, but it only makes things worse. I sometimes wonder if you are quite heartless. Don’t you believe in any man?”