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"Good-morning," she answered.
Bistre trotted to her side with an assurance that the man envied him, and had his head scratched with the end of her brush. Miles followed.
"How is the picture getting along?" he asked.
"You can see for yourself," she answered. "I haven't done much yet; I am waiting for the sun to get up a little higher; the shadows, you see, are still rather weak."
She turned toward him and he caught a fleeting glimpse of soft blue eyes under golden-brown lashes, of pink cheeks, and of a gleam of white teeth between the parted lips. Then he was looking down on to a blue cotton sun-bonnet again. He detested that bonnet. He moved his gaze to the canvas. The picture had not grown much; here and there the sketchy
