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thoughtfully at the canvas, stealing an occasional glance at the Princess. A quarter of an hour passed.
"How are you getting on?" asked Prudence, politely, without looking across.
"Oh, famously! I—I am almost ready to start."
"But you haven't done a thing yet!" she cried, in simulated surprise, viewing the canvas.
"No, not yet. You see, I have to wait for inspiration. Quite frequently it doesn't come for—hours!"
"Mr. Fallon," she said, sternly, "you came here on pretence of painting. If you don't paint, I must insist that you go away again."
"I don't like the sound of that word 'pretence,'" he answered, shaking his head grievedly.
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"Then you must do something."
