Just as the charm of novelty was disappearing from the procedure, and he was devising means of escape, another lady came in.
“Busy, dear?” she said, then she adjusted her lorgnettes, and she, too, looked disapprovingly at William.
“My dear!” she said. “Isn’t that rather—— Well, of course, I know you artists are—well, Bohemian and all that, but——”
The artist looked worried.
“My dear,” she said, “I showed the Vicar the picture yesterday, and he said that he had a child’s Esquimo costume, and he’d find a boy to fit in and send it round for a model. But—I’d an idea that the esquimos dressed more—er—more completely than that, hadn’t you?”
“I’m a Nanshunt——” began William, and stopped again.
“You remember Mrs. Parks asking for money to buy clothes for her boy?” went on the artist as she painted. “Well, I got John to go to that Sale of Work this afternoon and get a suit from the rummage stall, and he got quite a good suit, and I’ve just sent it round to her. Do stand still, little boy—You know, dear, I wish I felt happier about this—er—costume. Yet I feel I ought not to criticise and even in my mind, anything the dear Vicar——”
“Well, I’ll be quite frank,” said the visitor. “I don’t care for it—and I do think that artists can’t be too careful—any suggestion of the nude is so—well, don’t you agree with me? I’m surprised at the Vicar.”
The artist held out half a crown to William.
“You may go,” she said coldly. “Take the costume back to the Vicar, and I don’t think I shall require you again.”