“Perhaps now you have come you’ll be good enough to step round that I may continue my work. I am longing to refresh my memory with a sight of your face, Matt!”
“Well, you can’t,” said Matt; “they’re locked up!”
“Eh! what’s locked up—my memory or your face?”
It was clear Matt could not appreciate banter. She saw him smile, and guessed that he was laughing at her, and her face grew black and mutinous. She would have slunk off, but his voice stopped her.
“Come here, Matt,” he said. “Don’t be silly, child; tell me what’s the matter, and—why, what has become of your resplendent raiment—your gorgeous Sunday clothes?”
“Didn’t I tell yer?—they’re locked up.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes, William Jones done it ’cause he told him. He don’t want me to come here and be took.”
“Oh! Tell you what it is, Matt, we will have our own way, in spite of them. For the present this picture shall be put aside. If in a day or so you can again don your Sunday raiment, and sit to me again in them—if not, I dare say I shall be able to finish the dress from memory. That portrait I shall give to you. In the mean time, as I want one for myself, I will paint you as you are. Do you approve?”
Matt nodded her head vigorously.