“I will, with pleasure, if you’ll let me paint it my own way. I always make that condition.”
“I want to be painted just as I am. I don’t want to be flattered: I really mean that.”
“I’m glad you do, for—that’s my way. Please sit straight up in that chair, and look at me, so—yes, that’s it. I shan’t keep you in that pose long at a time, and I shan’t do much this morning, just rough in the head and figure if I can—if I’m in the mood. I never know whether I am or not till I begin to work.”
“May I talk?”
“Not for a few minutes—just look straight at me—so.”
For some ten minutes he worked rapidly and surely, pausing every now and again to examine her face intently. Only in the eyes lay anything of character, and from them looked out, so he thought, not only the struggling soul he expected to see, but a rebellious discontent.
“Now you can do what you like for a time, Mrs. West, and talk to me if you’ll be so good—but you mustn’t expect me to answer much—I’ll go on working.”
She did not, however, leave the chair, but relaxing her upright attitude, sank back, and watched him steadily.
“Have you known Phil long, Mr. Maddison?” she asked suddenly.
“Yes, off and on, for years.”