'But I can't say it isn't like you, Bella.' 'Oh, I knew _you'd_ say something like that, mother!' said the daughter, scornfully.

She stooped and threw a shawl round her shoulders; gathered up some working materials and a book with which she had been toying during the sitting; and then straightened herself with an air at once tragic and absurd.
'Well, good-bye, Mr.Fenwick.' She turned to the painter.

'I'd rather not sit again, please.' 'I shouldn't think of asking you, Miss Morrison,' murmured the young man, moving aside to let her pass.
'Hullo, hullo! what's all this ?' said a cheery voice at the door.
'Bella, where are you off to?
Is the sitting done ?' 'It's been going on two hours, papa, so I should think I'd had about enough,' said Miss Bella, making for the door.
But her father caught her by the arm.
'I say, we _are_ smart!--aren't we, mamma?
Well, now then--let me have a look.' And drawing the unwilling girl once more towards the painter, he detained her while he scrutinised the picture.
'Do I squint, papa ?' said Miss Morrison, with her head haughtily turned away.
'Wait a minute, my dear.' '_Have_ I got the colour of a barmaid, and a waist like Fanny's ?' Fanny was the Morrison's housemaid, and was not slim.
'Be quiet, Bella; you disturb me.' Bella's chin mounted still higher; her foot once more beat the ground impatiently, while her father looked from the picture to her, and back again.
Then he released her with a laugh.

'You may run away, child, if you want to.

Upon my word, Fenwick, you're advancing! You are: no doubt about that.