He took her in his arms.
"Dearest, dearest!" she murmured, looking at him with all her heart in her brown eyes.
So they stood for a little while, her mouth and body acquiescent to his embrace.
"Such a long, long time since I saw you. Nearly half an hour," he said.
"Yes." She drew away a little:
"Do you know," she said, looking about her, over his shoulder, "I have never been here since you took it as a studio."
She caught a glimpse of the picture on the easel, freed herself, and, retaining his hand in both of hers, gazed curiously at Rosalie's portrait.
"How perfectly charming!" she said. "But, Duane, there's a sort of exquisite impudence about what you've done! Did you mean to gently and disrespectfully jeer at our mincing friends, Boucher, Nattier, et al.?"
"I knew you'd understand!" he exclaimed, delighted. "Oh, you wonderful little thing—you darling!" He caught her to him again, but she twisted away and tucked one arm under his:
"Don't, Duane; I want to see these things. What a perfectly dear study of Miller's kiddies! Oh, it is too lovable, too adorable! You wouldn't sell that—would you?"