Dick was perfectly happy with a quiet peace that was as new to his mind as it was foreign to his experiences. It never occurred to him that there might be other calls upon his time than loafing across the Park in the forenoon.
“There's a good working light now,” he said, watching his shadow placidly. “Some poor devil ought to be grateful for this. And there's Maisie.”
She was walking towards him from the Marble Arch, and he saw that no mannerism of her gait had been changed. It was good to find her still Maisie, and, so to speak, his next-door neighbour. No greeting passed between them, because there had been none in the old days.
“What are you doing out of your studio at this hour?” said Dick, as one who was entitled to ask.
“Idling. Just idling. I got angry with a chin and scraped it out. Then I left it in a little heap of paint-chips and came away.”
“I know what palette-knifing means. What was the piccy?”
“A fancy head that wouldn't come right,—horrid thing!”
“I don't like working over scraped paint when I'm doing flesh. The grain comes up woolly as the paint dries.”
“Not if you scrape properly.” Maisie waved her hand to illustrate her methods. There was a dab of paint on the white cuff. Dick laughed.
“You're as untidy as ever.”