"Don't be silly, or I shan't employ you," I said with some annoyance.
She pushed out her crimson lips.
"You are too handsome to be an artist; they are mostly such guys."
"Hush, be quiet now, be still," I said, moving back from her to see if I had the effect I wanted. I felt with a sudden rush of delight I had. The face was just perfect now: the head a little inclined, the leaves in the glossy hair, no more exact image of the idea the word Bacchante always formed in my mind could be imagined.
I sketched her head in rapidly. I made two or three draughts of it in charcoal, then I got my colours and did a rough study of it in colour. Her neck, like that of almost all Italians, was a shade too short, but round and lovely in shape and colour. The time passed unnoticed, and it was only when the luncheon gong sounded I realised how long I had been at work.
I sprang up and gathered the sheets of paper together.
"That's all now," I said. "I'll take you again three to six. Are you tired?" I added, as she got up rather slowly and took up her hat.
"No," she answered, shaking her head. "All that was sitting down; that's easy."
Her voice sounded flat, but I was too hurried to take much notice of it. I wanted to get down to show Viola the work.
"Well, three o'clock then," I repeated, and ran downstairs.