His coming produced the effect of a slight frost in the air. The
Signora grew dignified, and made a little sign to Bianca to take a seat which would turn her back to the new-comer. Carlin frowned slightly and bent to his work; the old contadina glared from the man to her daughter, and the daughter blushed uneasily.
The young man seemed to be entirely unconscious of not having received a welcome, sauntered across the studio, pausing here and there, and at length, stopping under the pretence of examining a bust, fixed his eyes on the model.
“Look here, sir!” said Carlin, after five minutes of silence, “you’d better come in some other time, when I’m not busy.”
“Oh! don’t mind me,” was the careless reply.
Carlin waited a minute longer, then swung the screen round between his model and her tormentor.
The young man smiled slightly, gave his shoulders the least possible shrug, and began to saunter about the studio again, pausing finally at a spot that gave him a still better view of the girl.
The pencil quivered in Carlin’s hands, but his voice was gentle enough when he spoke again. “I don’t care to have visitors in the morning,” he said. “Come in in the afternoon, when I am working in marble. I work in clay always in the morning.”
“My dear fellow, I don’t want you to trouble yourself in the least about me. I can amuse myself,” the visitor replied.
Carlin seemed to be galvanized so suddenly he started upright, with anger in every nerve of him. “Confound you!” he cried out, “do you want me to pitch you out of the window? Go about your business.”