I believe he really does want to do a portrait of me, she thought. He's fixing the features in his mind. She turned her head toward Sylvia and Rose so that he would see the half-profile with an appealing madonna softness upon it. The coloured glass panes behind her, what a vivid background that would make.—But she felt he was about to ask a question, and allowed her eyes to come round to meet him, to make it easier for him. Obviously he was shy.
"Do I have to finish my beans?" he said.
What a difficult question to answer. There must be some joke that she did not see.
"Beans make bones," asserted Rose fatuously.
"Why, of course not," she said hastily. "I was afraid that cocoanut cake would take away your appetite." No, that was the wrong thing to say: she saw George's face sharpen at the mention of the cake: he was getting ready to blurt out something and she felt sure it would be awkward. With the speed of a hunted animal her mind dodged in search of some remark that would give her time to think.
"I like the English way of serving beans, slicing them lengthwise, you know; it makes them so tender, without any strings." There; surely that would dispose of the absurd topic. "George,
