He looked quickly at
her. Her cheeks were of a rich rose hue, her eyes--he could not tell
what her eyes were like. But she moved on toward the door. He followed
her into the other room.
"Won't you stay a minute here, then? I don't care for it as I do the
other, but--it's a place to talk in. And I haven't talked to you
for--four months. It's the middle of June.... Let me show you this
picture over here."
He succeeded in detaining her for a few minutes, which raced by on wings
for him. He did it only by keeping his speech strictly upon the subject
of art, and presently, in spite of his endeavours, she was off across
the room and out of the door, through the hall and in the company of
Mrs. Stephen and Mr. Matthew Kendrick. The pair, the old man and the
girlish young mother, looked up from a collection of miniatures, brought
out in continuance of the discussion over child faces begun by
Rosamond's interest in the colour-drawing found upon Richard's walls.
They saw a flushed and heart-disturbing face under a drooping white
hat-brim, and eyes which looked anywhere but at them, though Roberta's
voice said quite steadily: "Rosy, do you know how long we are staying?"
In explanation of this sudden haste another face appeared, seen over
Roberta's shoulder.
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