"She's got a sweet face.
Say, I read the piece about you and her in the paper. You certainly got
a nerve, Kirk, breaking in on the millionaires that way."
That night Ruth spoke her mind about Miss Vince. It was in vain that
Kirk touched on the work-shy father, dwelt feelingly on the young
gentleman who travelled in hats. Ruth had made up her mind. It was
thumbs down for Miss Vince.
"But if I'm to paint," said Kirk, "I must have models."
"There must be hundreds who don't call you by your Christian name."
"After about five minutes they all do," said Kirk. "It's a way they've
got. They mean no harm."
Ruth then made this brilliant suggestion: "Kirk, dear, why don't you
paint landscapes?"
In spite of his annoyance, he laughed.
"Why don't I paint landscapes, Ruth? Because I'm not a landscape
painter, that's why."
"You could learn."
"It's a different branch of the trade altogether. You might just as
well tell a catcher to pitch."
"Well, anyhow," reported Ruth with spirit, "I won't have that Vince
creature in the place again."
It was the first time she had jerked at the reins or given any sign
that she was holding them, and undoubtedly this was the moment at which
Kirk should have said: "My dearest, the time has come for me to state
plainly that my soul is my own. I decline to give in to this absurd
suggestion.
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