really a fisherman," she said, "and not a courtier, as your Bond Street coat seems to indicate. Yes, Tom Pitts is your name, after all, although at first I did not believe it."
No one knew better than Stranleigh that he failed to shine in the presence of women, and this knowledge caused his avoidance of them. The straightforwardness of expression which men liked in him seemed less acceptable with the women. He had been thinking only of the girl's wares and their disposal, and thus clumsily stumbled upon an expression that slighted her art. He had practically said that Lord Stranleigh would buy her pictures because he knew no better. Tom Pitts reddened with confusion at the remembrance, but at the moment could conjure up no method of reparation. Hang it all, he thought, even the greatest statesman was easier to converse with than this unknown slip of a girl, who saw in your sentences much more than you intended to place there.
"Are you as good at figure-drawing as at landscapes?" stammered Tom Pitts.
"Better, I think."
"Then Pebblesdale will give you the chance of your life. Both men and women there are splendid, with any amount of character in their faces. There's old Ned Stover, for instance. If you can get his thousand and one wrinkles into a portrait, I can sell it for a big price to the Duke of Belmont."
