Say. Fanny, those sketches
of yours are---- Why, Gee Whiz! I didn't know
you did that kind of thing. This one here, with that girl's
face in the crowd----"
"For heaven's sake!" Fanny demanded, "what are you doing
here at seven-thirty? And I don't allow people to look at
those sketches. You said eight-thirty."
"I was afraid you'd change your mind, or something.
Besides, it's now twenty-two minutes to eight. And will you
tell the lady that's a wonderful idea about the chicken?
Only she'd better start now."
Goaded by time bulletins shouted through the closed door,
Fanny found herself tubbed, clothed, and ready for breakfast
by eight-ten. When she opened the door Clarence was
standing in the center of her little sitting room, waiting,
a sheaf of loose sketches in his hand.
"Say, look here! These are the real thing. Why, they're
great! They get you. This old geezer with the beard,
selling fish and looking like one of the Disciples. And
this. What the devil are you doing in a mail order house,
or whatever it is? Tell me that! When you can draw like
this!"
"Good morning," said Fanny, calmly.
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