Now watch me find
the end of this snarl!" And she danced over to the dumbfounded little
lady in the big chair, gave her an affectionate kiss, and then attacked
the tangled mass of black with skilful fingers.
"But, I--you--oh, my grief and conscience!" finished the little woman
whose name was not Helen Clarabella.--"Oh, my grief and conscience,"
according to Bertram, was Aunt Hannah's deadliest swear-word.
In Aunt Hannah's black silk lap Spunk stretched luxuriously, and blinked
sleepy eyes; then with a long purr of content he curled himself for
another nap--still Spunk.
It was some time after luncheon that day that Bertram heard a knock at
his studio door. Bertram was busy. His particular pet "Face of a Girl"
was to be submitted soon to the judges of a forthcoming Art Exhibition,
and it was not yet finished. He was trying to make up now for the many
hours lost during the last few days; and even Bertram, at times, did not
like interruptions. His model had gone, but he was still working rapidly
when the knock came. His tone was not quite cordial when he answered.
"Well?"
"It's I--Spunk and I. May we come in?" called a confident voice.
Bertram said a sharp word behind his teeth--but he opened the door.
"Of course! I was--painting," he announced.
"How lovely! And I'll watch you. Oh, my--what a pretty room!"
"I'm glad you like it.
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