He did not know what her face
was like. Before she had time to turn round, Mr. Lawrence had
called him into his office, and he had been let out by a private
door. Rodney had been dreaming of a good model, of the true
proportions and delicate articulations that in Paris and Italy are
knocking at your door all day, and this was the very model he
wanted for his girl feeding chickens and for his Virgin, and he
thought of several other things he might do from her. But he might
as well wish for a star out of heaven, for if he were to ask that
girl to sit to him she would probably scream with horror; she
would run to her confessor, and the clergy would be up in arms.
Rodney had put the girl out of his head, and had gone on with his
design for an altar. But luck had followed him for this long
while, and a few days afterwards he had met the pretty clerk in a
tea-room. He had not seen her face before, and he did not know who
it was until she turned to go, and as she was paying for her tea
at the desk he asked her if Mr. Lawrence were in town. He could
see that she was pleased at being spoken to. Her eyes were alert,
and she told him that she knew he was doing altars for Father
McCabe, and Father McCabe was a cousin of hers, and her father had
a cheese-monger's shop, and their back windows overlooked the mews
in which Rodney had his studio.
"How late you work! Sometimes your light does not go out until
twelve o'clock at night."
Henceforth he met her at tea in the afternoons, and they went to
the museum together, and she promised to try to get leave from her
father and mother to sit to him for a bust.
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