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 June shook her head. Secretly, however, she felt like weakening a bit. In the wistful voice was a note that hurt. But she could not afford to yield; there was far too much at stake. "I shall have to think the matter over very carefully," she temporised. "And, in the meantime, not a word to Uncle Si that the picture's mine."

She mustered the force of will to exact a promise. Bewildered, sad, a little incredulous, he gave it.

"I hope he doesn't hate me half as much as I hate myself," was the swift and sickening thought that annihilated June, as she ran from the studio, having recollected with a pang of dismay that she had not put in the pudding for dinner.