“Exactly. Sounds a bit alarming, does it?”
“N-no,” answered Harry, “only—”
“I know,” laughed the artist. “You haven’t anything to wear. Isn’t that it?” Harry’s silence gave assent.
“Well, now, I’d like you to wear just what you’ve got on.” He paused and eyed her critically. “Never mind a hat. I want that glorious hair of yours, Miss Emery. And—let me see—if you have a bit of blue ribbon at home you might just tie it around your waist. What do you say, now? Yes, I hope.”
Harry was much too delighted to speak, but the others mistook the emotion.
“Oh, go ahead, Harry,” said Roy. “I’d like to see a picture of you.”
“Sure,” chimed in Chub. “And maybe if it’s awfully good we’ll buy it for the camp.”
“There’ll be refreshments in case you get hungry,” said the artist smilingly. “Let me see, what do young ladies like? Candy, of course, and—hum—pickled limes and gingerbread.”
Harry giggled nervously.
“I don’t like pickled limes,” she said.