lips as she crossed to the studio door and swung it open.
"But I didn't say I was going," he demurred, frowning above his smile. He was sure of himself, sure of his mastery, sure of his technique.
"You are going," she said, slowly and distinctly.
He stood there, as she repeated those three flat-toned words of hers, reviewing his technique, going back over it, for some undivulged imperfection. For it was plain that she piqued him. She more than piqued him; she disturbed him. But he refused to sacrifice his dignity for any such momentary timidity. It was familiar ground to him; each endearing move and maneuver was instinctive with him. Only the type was new. And novelty was not to be scoffed at.
He was smiling absently as he picked up his hat and gloves from the cherrywood table. And he stopped in front of her, still smiling, on his way out.
"Remember, wild-bird, that I am coming back to-morrow," he said, arrested in spite
