as Nick had said), watched her a little and then exclaimed that she wished she had locked her up at home. Putting aside her humorous account of the dangers to which she was exposed from her mother, it was not whimsical to imagine that, within the limits of that repose from which the Neville-Nugents never wholly departed, Mrs. Rooth might indeed be a trifle fidgety and have something on her mind. Nick presently mentioned that it would not be possible for him to "send home" this second performance; and he added, in the exuberance of having already got a little into relation with his work, that perhaps that didn't matter, inasmuch as—if Miriam would give him his time, to say nothing of her own—a third masterpiece might also some day very well come off. His model rose to this without conditions, assuring him that he might count upon her till she grew too old and too ugly and that nothing would make her so happy as that he should paint her as often as Romney had painted the celebrated Lady Hamilton. "Ah, Lady Hamilton!" deprecated Mrs. Rooth; while Miriam, who had on occasion the candour of a fine acquisitiveness, inquired what particular reason there might be for his not letting them have the picture he was now beginning.
"Why, I've promised it to Peter Sherringham—he has offered me money for it," Nick replied. "However, he's welcome to it for nothing, poor fellow, and I shall be delighted to do the best I can for him."
Mrs. Rooth, still prowling, stopped in the middle of the room at this, and Miriam exclaimed: "He offered you money—just as we came in?"
