We belong to each other--you
and I--and to nobody else."
"I'd be well content to belong to 'e, Mister Jan. You'm my good fairy, I
reckon. If I could work for 'e allus an' see 'e an' 'ear 'e every day, I
shouldn' want nothin' better'n that."
Then it was that the shade of a compunction and the shadow of a regret
touched John Barron; and it cooled his hot blood for a brief moment, and he
swore to himself he would try to paint her again as she was. He would fight
Nature for once and try if pure intellect was strong enough to get the face
he wanted on to the canvas without the gratification of his flesh and
blood. In which determination glimmered something almost approaching to
self-sacrifice in such a man. He did not answer Joan's last remark, but
rose and went to his picture, and she, thinking herself snubbed by his
silence after her avowal, grew hot and uncomfortable.
"The weather is going to change, sweetheart," he said, allowing himself the
luxury of affectionate words in the moment of his half-hearted struggle;
"the weather-glass creeps back slowly. We must not waste time. Come, Joan;
we are the children of Nature, but the slaves of Art. Let me try again."
But she, who had spoken in all innocence and with a child's love, was
pained that he should have taken no note of her speech. She was almost
angry that he had power to conjure such words to her lips; and yet the
anger vanished from her mind quickly enough and her thoughts were all happy
as she resumed her pose for him.
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