There was almost a suggestion of irritation in his
utterance, as though his model's rare beauty only increased his own
artistic difficulties; and, perhaps fearing from her smile that she found
undue pleasure in his statement, he added to it:
"I don't say that to natter you, Joan. I hate compliments and never pay
them. I told you, remember, that your wrists were a thought too big."
"You needn't be sayin' it over an' over, Mister Jan," she answered, her
smile changing to a pout.
"But you wouldn't like me any more if I stopped telling you the truth. We
have agreed to love what is true and to worship Mother Nature because she
always speaks the truth."
The girl made no answer, and he went on working for a few moments, then
spoke again.
"I'm selfish, Joan, and think more of my picture than I do of my little
model. Put down your arm and take a good rest. I tried holding my hand over
my eyes yesterday to see how long I could do so without wearying myself. I
found that three minutes was quite enough, but I have often kept you posed
for five."
"It hurted my arm 'tween the shoulder an' elbow a lil bit at first, but
I've grawed used to it now."
"How ever shall I repay you, kind Joan, for all your trouble and your long
walks and pretty stories?"
"I doan't need no pay. If 'twas a matter o' payin', 'twould be a wrong
thing to do, I reckon. Theer's auld Bascombe up Paul--him wi' curls o' long
hair an' gawld rings in's ears.
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