“Yes. ‘The Rebel.’ ”
“It’s good,” he said slowly, “very good; it’ll be the biggest thing you’ve done. May I commission it? I’d like to have it”—he looked straight at Marian as he spoke. “That reminds me why I came here this morning. If you’ve time and inclination—I know what a particular cuss you are—I should be glad if you’d paint my wife’s portrait. I should think she might suit you. You remember her?”
“I am a particular cuss,” Maddison answered, smiling grimly at the remembrance of various commissions rejected. “Have you said anything to Mrs. West?”
“No.”
“Then don’t, till I know whether I can paint her or not.”
“Too late, coward, too late. She suggested it herself, and sent me here to bear her—commands. You and she may settle it as you like. She’s lunching at the Carlton with me—I wanted you to come, if you’re not engaged.”
“Engaged, no; but I’m in the mood for work. Are you dining in town?”
“We weren’t, but we will, if you’ll join us. I know there’s no persuading you to leave your work when you begin to talk about moods. Settled—dinner then?”
“Yes, when? Where?”
“The Carlton will do. Eight. Good-by. Good-by, Mrs. Squire. I used to know a parson of that name down in Kennington—an enthusiast——”