They talked then of the Venables. Betty said she had had her last sitting.
'I should like her to sit to me,' Tommy said; 'the way she stands, don't you know, with her head back'—the gesture of his own caught it not unsuccessfully—'and her eyes when she's going to smile. And the way her upper lip's so like her chin.'
Betty nodded. She, too, had gathered all that in the rarefied mountain air of the studio.
'I wish she'd come and see us, as the others do. Why doesn't she like us more?'
It was a simple question, thrown out casually and without much wondering; after all, every one cannot like everybody else.
But it was curious how Tommy grew abruptly red.
'How do you mean like us? I should think she does, doesn't she? Why—why shouldn't she?'
Betty's eyes consideringly took him in. He seemed, from his stammer grown aggressive, to feel an interest. Obviously he had been moved—moved a good deal—by 'the way she stands, don't you know, and her eyes when she's going to smile.'
'Well, you see,' Betty amended, 'she's too keen on her work, I expect, to want to see much of anyone. I dare say that's all.'
Tommy was a little appeased.