He seemed not at all finicky in this matter of light; he had no supposedly indispensable north light, and midday or midnight were almost equally apt to find him slashing with brush or scratching with crayon.
Presently the Duchess entered.

No word was spoken.

The Duchess, noteworthy for her mastery of silence, sank into a chair, a bent and shrunken image, nothing seemingly alive about her but her faintly gleaming, deep-set eyes.

Several minutes passed, then Hunt lifted the canvas from the easel and stood it against the wall.
"That's all for to-day, Maggie," he announced, pushing the easel to one side.

"Duchess, you and this wild young thing spread the banquet-table while I wash up." He disappeared into a corner shut off by burlap curtains.