"Never mind; we will take it some day
when he's asleep. Let's not paint any more, anyhow. I've come to see
your rooms." And she sprang blithely to her feet. "Dear, dear, what a
lot of faces!--and all girls, too! How funny! Why don't you paint other
things? Still, they are rather nice."
"Thank you," accepted Bertram; dryly.
Bertram did not paint any more that afternoon. Billy found much to
interest her, and she asked numberless questions. She was greatly
excited when she understood the full significance of the omnipresent
"Face of a Girl"; and she graciously offered to pose herself for the
artist. She spent, indeed, quite half an hour turning her head from side
to side, and demanding "Now how's that?--and that?" Tiring at last of
this, she suggested Spunk as a substitute, remarking that, after all,
cats--pretty cats like Spunk--were even nicer to paint than girls.
She rescued Spunk then from the paint-box where he had been holding high
carnival with Bertram's tubes of paint, and demanded if Bertram ever saw
a more delightful, more entrancing, more altogether-to-be-desired
model. She was so artless, so merry, so frankly charmed with it all that
Bertram could not find it in his heart to be angry, notwithstanding
his annoyance. But when at four o'clock, she took herself and her cat
cheerily up-stairs, he lifted his hands in despair.
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