“I will.”
She did so quickly, and bent her lovely head nearer to him.
“That’s better. You’ve got a damned fine head. Ceres might have owned it. But classical stuff is no good to me. You ought to have been painted by Leighton and hung on the line in the precious old Royal Academy.”
Again the tell-tale mark appeared above the bridge of Miss Van Tuyn’s charming nose.
“I painted by a Royal Academician!” she exclaimed. “Thank you, Dick!”
Garstin, who was as mischievous as a monkey, and who loved to play cat and mouse with a woman, continued to gaze at her with his assumption of fierce attention.
“But Leighton being unfortunately dead, we can’t go to him for your portrait,” he continued gravely. “I think we shall have to hand you over to McEvoy. Smith!” he suddenly roared.
“Well, what is it, Dick, what is it?” said the sculptor in a thin voice, with high notes which came surprisingly through the thicket of tangled hair about the cavern of his mouth.
“Who shall paint Beryl as Ceres?”
“I refuse to be painted by anyone as Ceres!” said Miss Van Tuyn, almost viciously.