KATE ARRAN was Stanwell's sitter; but the janitor had hardly filled the
stove when she came in to say that she could not sit. Caspar had had a
bad night: he was depressed and feverish, and in spite of his protests
she had resolved to fetch the doctor. Care sat on her usually tranquil
features, and Stanwell, as he offered to go for the doctor, wished he
could have caught in his picture the wide gloom of her brow. There was
always a kind of Biblical breadth in the expression of her emotions,
and today she suggested a text from Isaiah.
"But you're not busy?" she hesitated; in the full voice which seemed
tuned to a solemn rhetoric.
"I meant to be--with you. But since that's off I'm quite unemployed."
She smiled interrogatively. "I thought perhaps you had an order. I met
Mr. Shepson rubbing his hands on the landing."
"Was he rubbing his hands? Well, it was not over me. He says that from
the style of my pictures he doesn't suppose I want to sell."