His restraint was the nicest homage ever rendered her;
she saw that instantly; and the straight look she gave him out of her
clear eyes took his breath away for a second.
"Do you remember Sacharissa?" she asked.
"I do--certainly! I always thought----"
"What?" she said, smiling.
He muttered something about eyes and white skin and a trick of the heavy
lids.
She was perfectly at ease now; she leaned back in her chair, studying him
calmly.
"Suppose," she said, "people could see me here now."
"It would end your artistic career," he replied, laughing; "and fancy! I
took you for the sort that painted for a bare existence!"
"And I--I took you for----"
"Something very different than what I am."
"In one way--not in others."
"Oh! I look the mountebank?"
"I shall not explain what I mean," she said with heightened color, and
rose from her chair. "As there are no more green mice to peep out at me
from behind my easel," she added, "I can have no excuse from abandoning
art any longer. Can I?"
The trailing sweetness of the inquiry was scarcely a challenge, yet he
dared take it up.
"You asked me," he said, "whether you could do anything for me."
"Can I?" she exclaimed.
"Yes."
"I will--I am glad--tell me what to do?"
"Why, it's only this. I've got to go before an audience of two hundred
people and do things. I've had practice here by myself, but--but if you
don't mind I should like to try it before somebody--you.
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