She put out her hand instinctively and touched him.
"I want to be alone with you, Duane--for a little while." "Shall I go to the beech-tree and wait ?" She glanced around with a hopeless gesture: "You see?
Other people are arriving and I've simply got to be here.

I don't see how I can get away before luncheon.

Where were you going just now ?" "I thought I'd step over to the studio to see what sort of a shake-down you've given me to repose on." "I wish you would.

Poor child, I do hope you will be comfortable.

It's perfectly horrid to send you out of the house----" "Oh, I don't mind," he nodded, laughing, and she gave him a shy glance of adieu and turned to receive another guest.
In his extemporized studio at Hurryon Lodge he found that old Miller had already provided him with a washstand and accessories, a new tin tub and a very comfortable iron bed.
The place was aromatic with the odour of paints, varnishes, turpentine, and fixative; he opened the big window, let in air and sunshine, and picked up a sheaf of brushes, soft and pliable from a fresh washing in turpentine and black soap.
Confronting him on a big improvised easel was the full-length, half-reclining portrait of Rosalie Dysart--a gay, fascinating, fly-away thing after the deliberately artificial manner of the French court painters who simpered and painted a hundred and fifty years ago.