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 The color deepened in her face.

"That," she replied, calmly, "has nothing to do with it. If you wish to waste your time that is your own affair, but my time is valuable, for my painting means bread and butter. Besides, it looks—it looks very foolish."

It was his turn to redden. The flames leaped into his cheeks.

"I quite understand, Miss Lynde," he answered, in a low voice that was not quite steady. "I beg you to rest assured that you will not be troubled any further in—that way."

He bowed. To a third person, had there been one present,—of course, Bistre isn't counted,—that bow would have looked highly absurd, but neither he nor she was in a mood to appreciate humor. She returned the bow with a dignified bend of her head.