"
She made no answer. Another knock at the door.
"There's Geoffrey. Come in, old boy. We've only just begun."
Half an hour's exhibition followed. Both Helena and French were
intelligent spectators, and their amazement at the quality and variety of
the work shown them seemed half-welcome, half-embarrassing to their host.
"Why don't you go on with it? Why don't you exhibit?" cried Helena.
He shrugged his shoulders.
"It doesn't interest me now. It's a past phase."
She longed to ask questions. But his manner didn't encourage it. And when
the half-hour was done he looked at his watch.
"Dressing-time," he said, smiling, holding it out to Helena. She rose at
once. Philip was a delightful artist, but the operations of dressing
were not to be trifled with. Her thanks, however, for "a lovely time!"
and her pleading for a second show on the morrow, were so graceful, so
sweet, that French, as he silently put the drawings back, felt his
spirits drop to zero. What could have so changed the thorny, insolent
girl of six weeks before--but the one thing? He stole a glance at
Buntingford.
Pages:
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244