He had it, the thing that had puzzled him. She was just such a child as Lynette, save that she was the woman. There was the same wonder, the same delightful half-earnest playfulness, the same seeing look in the eyes, the same sensitive quiver about the mouth.
She was gazing at Guinevere.
“Oh, that piques me, challenges me!”
“What, the flower?”
“It makes me think of the conquest of colours that I want to try.”
He understood.
“Come and paint it.”
“May I?”
“Certainly.”
“If I might come and try.”