"Capital! Now you can rest a minute. I've got to go and get some more ochre. Perhaps you'd like a drink?"
"Thank you; I should," confessed the young man, with a slight huskiness.
"All right; I'll bring it," said Mr. Thorold; and, as he was leaving the room, he said over his shoulder, "My daughter; Captain Barnard."
Kitty closed the door carefully; then, seating herself on the divan, she rested her chin in her hand and, regarding the young man severely, she demanded sternly:
"Perhaps you'll be kind enough to inform me of the—the meaning of this?"
He had seated himself on the edge of the dais and was wiping his face, as if he were just going through a dangerous action, with the enemy pressing on all sides.
"I beg your pardon?" he faltered, with meekness in his voice, mien, and eye.
"I asked you why you are masquerading here?" she said, uncompromisingly.
"Well, come to that, I'm not masquerading. This is my own kit; I'm a soldier, as you know. This is a genuine wound, not a fake; and I'm really hard up: had a run of bad luck lately. No harm in earning an honest shilling."
"But why come to my father, this particular studio, to earn it?" demanded Kitty, cutting short his feeble attempts at plausible explanation.