He had just reached it when Susanna’s fresh young voice was heard outside calling to her dogs, and a moment later she appeared. Her fair cheeks were flushed, her blue eyes were bright with exercise. She wore a rough gray skirt, which, if less abbreviated than of yore, still showed a slim, arched foot and suggested a charming ankle. Her white silk blouse was confined by a Norwegian belt, and a loose beret cap of black velvet crowned her yellow head, its silken riches being now disposed in a great coil, through which a silver arrow was carelessly thrust. She started and reddened from her temples to the edge of lace at her round throat when the tweed-clad figure of the painter caught her eye, and gave him her hand with an indifference which was too ostentatious.
“I didn’t know you were interested in Art,” she said.
“Oh yes!” responded the painter. “At least, if this can be called Art,” he added modestly.
“’Ssh!” warned Susanna. “He is up there, and will hear you.”
“He?” echoed the painter, reveling in the blush.
“Did I hear my name?” called the Duke sweetly, from above. “Hulloa, Lady Lymston, that you? Come to record progress? As you see, we’re going strong.” His six-foot brush menaced a Juno’s draperies, a gallipot of size upset, trickled its contents through the planking; his velveteen coat-tails placed Paris in peril, as he turned his back to the cartoon and resting his hands upon his knees, assumed a stooping attitude, and peered waggishly down over the edge of the scaffolding at Susanna.
“Take care—you!” shouted the painter, forgetting his aristocratic rôle.
“My foot is on my native thingumbob, ain’t it, Lady Lymston?” said the owner of the small, cockneyfied, grinning countenance above. “How do you like the wax-works? This is the”—he flourished the six-foot brush perilously—“this is the Judgment of Berlin.”
“Paris!” prompted the false Duke hoarsely.
“He is trying to joke,” said Susanna, in an undertone. “Don’t discourage him.”