“The lady, your honour, to have her picture taken. Will I show her into the parlour?”
But as he spoke Matt pushed him aside and entered. She wore her best clothes, but looked a little pale and anxious, Brinkley thought, as he greeted her with a familiar nod.
“So you’ve come at last? Tim, get out, you rascal. I thought you had given me up.”
He assumed a coldness, though he felt it not, for he had made up his mind not to “encourage” the young person.
“I couldn’t come before—they wouldn’t let me. But last night William Jones he didn’t come home, and I broke open the box and took out my clothes, and ran straight off here.”
Her face fell as she proceeded, for she could not fail to notice the coolness of the young man’s greeting.
“Well, since you have come, we’ll get to work,” said Brinkley. “It’s chilly and damp outside, so we’ll remain here in shelter.”
Matt took off her hat, and then proceeded to divest herself of her coarse jacket, revealing for the first time the low-necked silk dress beneath. Meantime the young man placed the sketch in position. Turning presently, he beheld Matt’s transformation.
Old and shabby as the dress was, torn here and there, and revealing beneath glimpses of coarse stockings and clumsy boots, it became her wonderfully. As a result of much polishing with soap and water her face shone again, and her arms and neck were white as snow. Thus attired, Matt looked no longer a long shambling girl, but a tall, bright, resplendent, young lady.
It was no use. Brinkley could not conceal his admiration. Matt’s arm alone was enough to make a painter wild with delight.