She said, “I don’t wonder you’re cross. And I’m truly sorry. Is it quite ruined?”
At that I recovered some decency of manner. “Forgive a hermit,” I said, “who doesn’t see enough people to keep him civilized. The daub doesn’t matter.”
She leaned over from the saddle to examine the picture. “Oh, but it isn’t a daub!” she protested. “I—I know a little about pictures. It’s very interesting and curious. But why do you paint it on copper?”
I explained.
“Oh!” she said. “I should so like to see your prints!”
“Nothing easier,” said I. “My shack is just over the hill.”
“And there is a Mrs.—” her eyes suggested that I fill the blank.
“Sedgwick?” I finished. “No. There is no one but my aged and highly respectable Chinaman to play propriety. But in the case of a studio, les convenances are not so rigid but that one may look at pictures unchaperoned.”
“I’m afraid it wouldn’t do,” she answered, smiling. “No, I’ll have to wait until—” A shadow passed over her face. “I’m afraid I’ll have to give it up.”
Chance settled that point then and there. As she finished, she was in my arms. The girth had loosened, and the saddle had turned with her. I had barely time to twist her foot from the stirrup when the brute of a horse bolted. As it was, her ankle got a bit of a wrench. She turned quite white, and cried out a little. In a moment she was herself again.