“‘I tell you what it is, Matt,’ I said familiarly, ‘I’ll paint you, though the other painter chap wouldn’t.’
“‘You will!’ she cried, blushing with delight.
“‘Certainly; and a very nice portrait I think you’ll make. Be good enough to take off your hat that I may have a better look at you.’
“She obeyed me at once, and threw the clumsy thing down on the grass beside her. Then I saw that her head was covered with short black curls, clinging round a bold white brow unfreckled by the sun. She glanced at me sidelong, laughing and showing her white teeth. Whatever her age was she was quite old enough to be a coquette.
“Promptly as possible I put the question: ‘You have not told me how old you are?’
“‘Fifteen,’ she replied without hesitation.
“‘I should have taken you to be at least a year older.’
“She shook her head.
“‘It’s fifteen year come Whitsuntide,’ she explained, ‘since I come ashore.’
“Although I was not a little curious to know what this ‘coming ashore’ meant, I felt that all my conversation had been categorical to monotony, and I determined, therefore, to reserve further inquiry until another occasion. Observing that my new friend was now looking at the caravan with considerable interest, I asked her if she knew what it was, and if she had ever seen anything like it before. She replied in the negative, though I think she had a tolerably good guess as to the caravan’s uses. I thought this a good opportunity to show my natural politeness. Would she like to look at the interior? She said she would, though without exhibiting much enthusiasm.