Part 11 (1/2)
”Early! It's seven o'clock.”
”I still claim it's early. I have only been in bed four hours.”
”Well, you kin go back to bed. I'll work orful quiet.”
”And I can trust you not to touch any of the pictures or move anything?”
”I'll be keerful,” Amarilly a.s.sured him. ”Jest show me whar to het up the water. I brung the soap and a brush.”
The artist lighted a gas stove, and, after carefully donning a long- sleeved ap.r.o.n, Amarilly put the water on and began operations. Her eyes shone with antic.i.p.ation as she looked about her.
”I'm glad it's so dirty,” she remarked. ”It's more interestin' to clean a dirty place. Then what you do shows up, and you feel you earnt your money.”
With a laugh the artist returned to his bedroom, whence he emerged three hours later.
”This room is all cleaned,” announced Amarilly. ”It took me so long 'cause it's so orful big and then 'twas so turrible dirty.”
”You must have worked like a little Trojan. Now stop a bit while I prepare my breakfast.”
”Kin you cook?” asked Amarilly in astonishment.
”I can make coffee and poach eggs. Come into my butler's pantry and watch me.”
Amarilly followed him into a small apartment and was initiated into the mysteries of electric toasters and percolators.
He tried in vain to induce her to share his meal with him, but she protested.
”I hed my breakfast at five-thirty. I don't eat agin till noon.”
”Oh, Miss Jenkins! You have no artistic temperament or you would not cling to ironclad rules.”
”My name's Amarilly,” she answered shortly. ”I ain't old enough to be 'missed' yet.”
”I beg your pardon, Amarilly. You seem any age,” he replied, sitting down to his breakfast, ”You are not too old, then, for me to ask what your age is--in years?”
”I jest got into my teens.”
”Thirteen. And I am ten years older. When is your birthday?”
”It's ben. It was the fust of June.”
”Why, Amarilly,” jumping up and holding out his hand, ”we are twins!
That is my birthday.”
”And you are twenty-three.”
”Right you are. That is my age at the present moment. Last night I was far older, and to-morrow, mayhap, I'll be years younger.”
”Be you a Christian Science?” she asked doubtfully.
”Lord, no, child! I am an artist. What made you ask that?”