She laughed a little uncertainly and a faint flush rose to her cheeks.
“Shall I? Oh, what conceited creatures men are! And—I don’t know how much you love me. A woman never knows. Now go on with the portrait.”
As she went down in the lift some time later it stopped at the second floor, and to her surprise the gate admitted Colin Paton.
“You!” he exclaimed pleasantly. “And what are you doing in Victoria Street?”
For a moment she had an unpleasant feeling of having been caught doing something clandestine, and her reply was a little embarrassed. She never remembered to have felt quite so before.
“Didn’t you know that Mr. Hamilton’s studio is up at the top? The portrait, you know.”
She was very annoyed with herself for the feeling, and went on quickly:
“It was you who begged me to continue the sittings. So I have been trying to please you. But it’s very tiresome.”
She wondered what made her tack on the last sentence even as she uttered it. Was it because she feared that his keen eyes would note her embarrassment? Why did she have to be a hypocrite? She was glad when the lift stopped and the bright electric light ceased to shine on her face. The street was grey and more kindly.
“Beauty must be penalized some way or another,” he rejoined smilingly. “Some women would be only too glad to put up with the boredom should a well-known portrait-painter beg them to sit.”