She clasped her white hands on the cloth and looked at him with that engaging, humorous little air which had so easily captivated her audiences in Europe—that, and her voice with the hint of recklessness ever echoing through its sweetness and youthful gaiety.
“What are you doing in New York?” she asked. “Painting?”
“I have a studio, but——”
“But no clients? Is that it? Pouf! Everybody begins that way. I sang in a café at Dijon for five francs and my soup! At Rennes I nearly starved. Oh, yes, Garry, in spite of a number of obliging gentlemen who, like you, offered—first aid——”
“That is absolutely rotten of you, Thessa. Did I ever——”
“No! For goodness’ sake let me jest with you without flying into tempers!”
“But——”
“Oh, pouf! I shall not quarrel with you! Whatever you and I were going to say during the next ten minutes shall remain unsaid!... Now, the ten minutes are over; now, we’re reconciled and you are in good humour again. And now, tell me about yourself, your 55 painting—in other words, tell me the things about yourself that would interest a friend.”
“Are you?”
“Your friend? Yes, I am—if you wish.”