“What a funny little girl you are,” he said, laying a hand on her arm. “We always have to use models; all artists have, even for the Christ or the Blessed Virgin; there is nothing wicked in that.”
She looked at him doubtfully.
“Well if you must go, tell me when I can see you again,” he said. “You’ve haven’t told me your name yet?”
“My name is Carlotta, but they call me Carlot,” she said.
“Carlot! That’s the name of my dog,” and he laughed boisterously.
Carlotta was hurt. “That is not kind of you,” she said and turned to go.
“One moment. I am sorry, but so sweet a face deserves a better name. I shall call you Daphne. When can we meet?”
For the first time she was alarmed. Sitting on the ground was one thing, but standing beside him and seeing how tall and strong he was, she felt a vague fear.
“Carlot … Carlot … where are you?” came a call.
A sudden realisation of her wickedness in talking to a man came to her, and she turned and fled away.