“So,” he said, “poking and prying and asking questions. I thought as much. He’s a scoundrelly vagabond!”
“No, he ain’t,” said Matt bluntly.
“Matt, my girl,” said Mr. Monk, taking no notice of her interruption, “I want you to promise me something.”
“What is it?”
“Not to go near that painter again!” Matt shook her head.
“Shan’t promise,” she said, “’cause I shall go. My likeness ain’t took yet—he takes a time, he does. I’m going to put them things on to-morrow and be took again.”
For a moment the light in his eyes looked dangerous, then he smiled and patted her cheek, at which caress she shrank away. “What’s the matter?” he asked.
“Nothing,” said Matt. “I don’t like to be pulled about, that’s all.”
“You mean you don’t like me?”
“Don’t know. That’s telling.”