“Why not come next Sunday; it is your Sunday off.” “What would Maggie say if she found me there? She'd have my eyes out.” “If she did find it out she'd know you came to sit; but as a matter of fact she'd know nothing about it. You come and lunch with me about twelve--they're all in church about that time.” “And you never go to church, you wicked boy. I don't know that I dare trust myself with you.” A scruple jarred the even strain of his desire to paint Lizzie's portrait, but his scruple vanished in one of her sweet sunny smiles, and he gave her all information about the train she would have to take to reach Southwick by twelve o'clock. He ordered some delicacies in the way of potted meats, and there was a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice when she arrived. “Do you keep your champagne in ice? We never do in the bar. When the gentlemen want it they have a piece to put in their wine.” “I wish you'd try to forget your gentlemen when you come here.” Lizzie began to cry, and it was hard to console her; she said that Frank had spoilt her lunch for her. “It is because you are so much superior to the men I see you speaking to. How can I help feeling annoyed that you should be serving drinks?” “But I've got to get my living. You don't suppose I serve in a bar because I like it?” “No, of course not; but don't let us talk any more about it. You're going to sit to me, and I want to do as pretty a portrait of you as I can. All that beautiful brown hair, and that hat! Let me take it from your head!” Frank had bought this hat for her and had handed it to her over the counter, thereby bringing censure upon her from the manager. “Let's forget what I said. The hat suits you. There, now against the light, just a three-quarter face.” At the end of half an hour he said she was a very good sitter and this pleased her, and she tried to keep the pose till the clock struck, but at the end of fifty minutes she said: “I must get up,” and she came round to see what he was doing. “Now you mustn't criticise it,” he said. “It's only a beginning. You've forgiven me my remarks about the bar?” “Don't remind me of it again.” But he could not get it out of his head that he had annoyed her, and was unable to apply himself to his painting; perhaps for this reason his drawing went wrong, and his colour became muddy, and the thought struck him that if Maggie were to find this portrait about the studio she would certainly ask him whose portrait it was. “I can't paint to-day,” he said, getting up from his easel. “And why can't you paint?” The question seemed to him at first a stupid one, and then she showed a perception that surprised him. “Are you afraid the young lady you're engaged to might come and catch me sitting to you?”