As they passed the end of the lobby, a certain door chanced to open, and Armstrong caught a vision of an easel and a fair head beyond, and beyond that a mantelpiece decorated with all sorts of Oriental and feminine knick-knacks. He might have observed more had his glass been up, and had he not been eagerly accosted by Miss Jill, who just then was running out of the room.
“Mr Armstrong! Mr Armstrong!” shouted she in glee. “Rosalind, he’s come back; here he is!”
And without more ado she caught the embarrassed tutor by the arm and demanded a kiss. He compromised feebly by patting her head, whereat Miss Jill pouted.
“You’re more unkind than yesterday,” she said; “you kissed me then.”
“You shouldn’t ask Mr Armstrong to do horrid things,” said Miss Rosalind, coming to the door.
The tutor, very hot and flurried, replied to this cruel challenge by saluting the little tyrant and bowing to her sister.
“Won’t you come in and see the studio?” said the latter. “It’s a little less dreadful than yesterday, thanks to Roger. What are you carrying that bag for, Roger?”
“Armstrong’s going up to town for a few days.”
“How horrid!” said Miss Rosalind, with vexation in her voice; “just while Jill and I are feeling so lonely, cooped up here like nuns, with not a soul to talk to, and knowing we’re in everybody’s way.”
“Armstrong has a sad enough reason for going,” said Roger; “but I say, it’s not very complimentary to me to say you’ve not a soul to talk to.”