"They are only pencil and pen-and-ink sketches." Phillis put a small portfolio on the table and opened it. "This morning Mr. Joseph took me to see an exhibition of paintings. Most of the artists in that exhibition cannot draw, but some can—and then—Oh!"
"They cannot draw better than you, Miss Fleming, I am quite sure."
She shook her head as Jack spoke, turning over the sketches.
"It seems so strange to be called Miss Fleming. Everybody used to call me Phillis."
"Was—was everybody young?" Jack asked, with an impertinence beyond his years.
"No; everybody was old. I suppose young people always call each other by their christian names. Yours seems to be rather stiff. Ronald, Ronald—I am afraid I do not like it very much."
"My brothers and sisters, uncles and aunts, cousins and kinsfolk—the people who pay my debts and therefore love me most—call me Ronald. But everybody else calls me Jack."
"Jack!" she murmured. "What a pretty name Jack is! May I call you Jack?"
"If you only would!" he cried, with a quick flushing of his cheek. "If you only would! Not when other people are present, but all to ourselves, when we are together like this. That is, if you do not mind."
Could the Serpent, when he cajoled Eve, have begun in a more subtle and artful manner? One is ashamed for Jack Dunquerque.