Ellis joined in a quartet of silence, then laughed again, a short, embarrassed laugh.
"You don't look like anything famous, you know," said Jones reproachfully. "Why didn't you tell me who you are? Why, man, I own two of your pictures!"
To brown-eyes, known so far as "Helen," Ellis said: "We painters are a bad lot, you see—but don't let that prejudice you against Mr. Jones; he really doesn't know me very well. Besides, I dragged him into this villainy; didn't I, Jones? You didn't want to trespass, you know."
"Oh, come!" said Jones; "I own two of your pictures—the Amourette and the Corrida. That ought to convict me of almost anything."
Grey-eyes said: "We—my father—has the Espagnolita, Mr. Ellis." She blushed when she finished.
"Why, then, you must be Miss Sandys!" said Ellis quickly. "Mr. Kenneth Sandys owns that picture."
The brown eyes, which had widened, then sparkled, then softened as matters developed, now became uncompromisingly beautiful.
"I am dreadfully sorry," she said, looking at her notebook. "I trust that the school authorities may not press matters." Then she raised her eyes to see what Jones's expression might resemble. It resembled absolutely nothing.
After a silence Miss Sandys said: "Do you think Helen, that we are—that we ought to report this——"