The mother looked up slightly, and without pausing in her knitting--'It's no wonder you're cold,' she said, sharply, 'when you wear such ridiculous dresses in this weather.' It was now the daughter's turn to flush; she coloured and pouted.

The artist, John Fenwick, returned discreetly to his canvas, and occupied himself with a fold of drapery.
'I put it on, because I thought Mr.Fenwick wanted something pretty to paint.

And as he clearly don't see anything in _me_!'-- she looked over her shoulder at the picture, with a shrug of mock humility concealing a very evident annoyance--'I thought anyway he might like my best frock.' 'I'm sorry you're not satisfied, Miss Morrison,' said the artist, stepping back from his canvas and somewhat defiantly regarding the picture upon it.

Then he turned and looked at the girl--a coarsely pretty young woman, very airily clothed in a white muslin dress, of which the transparency displayed her neck and arms with a freedom not at all in keeping with the nipping air of Westmoreland in springtime--going up to his easel again after the look to put in another touch.
As to his expression of regret, Miss Morrison tossed her head.
'It doesn't matter to me!' she declared.

'It was father's fad, and so I sat.