"I would hesitate to mention it," said Miss Hurd, with a smile.
"Well, I wouldn't. On the contrary I freely and unqualifiedly announce that I am excessively tired of a thousand things, most of which begin with P. I am tired of portraits and portrait painters; I am tired of posing and of poseurs; I am tired of palettes and paint; I am tired of—" she stopped, breaking off a little suddenly.
"Well, complete it. You are tired of Pelgram, I suppose," said Isabel, composedly.
"Pelgram, then. Yes, I am," the other girl admitted.
Her friend raised her eyebrows, and glanced at her somewhat curiously.
"You don't have to marry him, you know," she remarked in a matter-of-fact tone.
"Of course I don't," Helen replied quickly. "But I have to sit to him four times a week until that unspeakable portrait is finished. And it's my belief that it never will be finished. He won't even let me look at it now. It's my opinion that he's doing like Penelope, and destroying every night what he has accomplished during the day. I would never have promised to have it done if I had suspected what I was in for. And if it were for any one else but old Aunt Mary Wardrop, I'd back out now."
Isabel regarded her sympathetically. A portrait was bad enough without the added embarrassment of an amatory artist.
"Is he really as difficult as that?" she asked.
"Even more difficult. He's more difficult than anything conceivable—except analytical trig," she added reflectively.