Bartlett, breaking forth in rapture at her movement and attitude.—"Oh, divine!"
Constance, innocently beaming upon him.—"Do you think so? I didn't suppose I could get it so at once. Is it really good?"
Bartlett, recalled to himself.—"Who? What? Yes, yes; it isn't bad. Not at all bad. That is"—
Constance, disappointedly.—"I thought you liked it." Gravely: "Why did you say it was divine?"
Bartlett.—"Because—I—I—thought so!"
Constance, with mystification.—"I'm afraid I don't understand. Shall I let this outline remain for Ponkwasset, or shall I use it for something else?"
Bartlett.—"Yes, let it remain for Ponkwasset; if it needs changing that can easily be done afterwards. Now block out your middle distance. So!" He takes the charcoal from her and draws. "Now, then, sketch in your figures."
Constance, timidly.—"How large shall I make them?"
Bartlett.—"Oh, as large as you like. How large did you think?"
Constance.—"I don't know. About a foot high."