'What are you doing out of your studio at this hour?' said Dick, as one who was entitled to ask.
'Idling. Just idling. I got angry with a chin and scraped it out. Then I left it in a little heap of paint-chips and came away.'
'I know what palette-knifing means. What was the piccy?'
'A fancy head that wouldn't come right,—horrid thing!'
'I don't like working over scraped paint when I'm doing flesh. The grain comes up woolly as the paint dries.'
'Not if you scrape properly.' Maisie waved her hand to illustrate her methods. There was a dab of paint on the white cuff. Dick laughed.
'You're as untidy as ever.'
'That comes well from you. Look at your own cuff.'
'By Jove, yes! It's worse than yours. I don't think we've much altered in anything. Let's see, though.' He looked at Maisie critically. The pale blue haze of an autumn day crept between the tree-trunks of the Park and made a background for the gray dress, the black velvet toque above the black hair, and the resolute profile.
'No, there's nothing changed. How good it is! D'you remember when I fastened your hair into the snap of a hand-bag?'
