Her blue eyes were clouded, for she deemed that he had put an
insult upon her budding womanhood. Barren showed no sign of his enjoyment,
but explained as clearly as possible that she was looking at a thing wholly
unfinished, indeed scarce begun.
"You might as well grumble with me for not painting your fingers or your
face, Joan. I told you I was a slow artist; only be patient; I'm going to
do all fitting honor to every scrap of you, if only you will let me."
"Warmer words had come to his lips, but he did not suffer them to pass.
Then the girl's beautiful face broke into a smile again.
"I be nigher eighteen than sebenteen, you knaw, Mister Jan. But, coorse, I
hadn't no bizness to talk like that to 'e, 'cause what do I knaw 'bout sich
things?"
"You shan't see the picture again till it is finished, Joan. It was my
fault for showing it to you like that, and you had every right to protest.
Now you must go, for it's long past twelve o'clock."
"I'm afeared I caan't come to-morrer."
"As you please. I shall be here every day, ready and only too glad to see
you."
"An'--an' you ban't cross wi' me for speakin' so rude, Mister Jan?"
"Cross, Joan? No, I'm never cross with anybody but myself. I couldn't be
cross with my kind little friend if I tried to be."
He shook hands; it was the first occasion that he had done so, and she
blushed. His hand was cold and thin, and she heard one of the bones in it
give a little crack as he held her palm within his own for the briefest
space of time.
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