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.  He promised me, if I didn’t like it, he’d put it in his own den, where my friends couldn’t see it.  So I really don’t care a straw!’

‘Bella! don’t be rude!’ said her mother, severely.  She rose and came to look at the picture.

Bella’s colour took a still sharper accent; her chest rose and fell; she fidgeted an angry foot.

‘I told Mr. Fenwick hundreds of times,’ she protested, ’that he was making my upper lip miles too long—­and that I hadn’t got a nasty staring look like that—­nor a mouth like that—­nor—­nor anything.  It’s—­it’s too bad!’

The girl turned away, and Fenwick, glancing at her in dismay, saw that she was on the point of indignant tears.

Mrs. Morrison put on her spectacles.  She was a small, grey-haired woman with a face, wrinkled and drawn, from which all smiles seemed to have long departed.  Even in repose, her expression suggested hidden anxieties—­fears grown habitual and watchful; and when she moved or spoke, it was with a cold caution or distrust, as though in all directions she was afraid of what she might touch, of possibilities she might set loose.

She looked at the picture, and then at her daughter.

‘It’s not flattered,’ she said, slowly.  ’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.