"Do you like pictures?" asked the young artist, following her gaze.
"Stay a while and look at them, if you wish."

Amarilly readily availed herself of this permission, and rummaged about
the rooms while Derry pursued his work. Upon the completion of her tour
of inspection, he noticed a decided look of disapproval upon her face.

"What is the matter, Miss Jenkins? Aren't the pictures true to life?" he
inquired with feigned anxiety.

"The picters is all right," replied Amarilly, "but--"

"But what?" he urged expectantly.

"Your rooms need reddin' up. Thar's an orful lot of dust. Yer things
will spile."

"Oh, dust, you know, to the artistic temperament, is merely a little
misplaced matter."

"'Tain't only misplaced. It's stuck tight," contended Amarilly.

"Dear me! And to think that I was contemplating a studio tea to some
people day after to-morrow, I suppose it really should be 'red up'
again. Honestly though, I engage a woman who come every week and clean
the rooms."

"She's imposed on you," said Amarilly indignantly. "She's swept the dirt
up agin the mopboards and left it thar, and she hez only jest skimmed
over things with a dust-cloth. It ain't done thorough."

"And are you quite proficient as a _blanchisseuse?"_ Amarilly looked at him unperturbed.

"I kin scrub," she remarked calmly.