"Oh, I can fix that." His lively imagination was full of it now.
"Thanks. Don't bother."
"And there's this to be said for a portrait of Sara," went on Leslie,
rather too eagerly: "she wouldn't object to having it exhibited in
the galleries. 'Gad, it would do you a world of good, Brandy."
The other's eyes narrowed. "I suppose I am to infer that Mrs.
Wrandall courts publicity."
"Not at all," cried the other impatiently. "What I mean is this:
she's taken a fancy to you, and if her portrait could be the means
of helping you--"
"Oh, cut that out, Les,--cut it out," growled Booth coldly.
"Well, in any event, if you want to paint her, I can fix it for
you," announced his companion.
"If you don't mind, old chap, I'll tackle Miss Castleton first,"
said Booth, dismissing the matter with a yawn.
"I hate the word tackle," said Leslie.
On a bright, sunny afternoon two weeks later, Mrs. Redmond Wrandall
received her most intimate friend in her boudoir. They were both
in ample black. Mrs. Rowe-Martin, it seems, had suffered a recent
bereavement--with an aspect of permanency,--in the loss of a four
thousand dollar Airdale who had stopped traffic in Fifth Avenue for
twenty minutes while a sympathetic crowd viewed his gory remains,
and an unhappy but garrulous taxi-cab driver tried to account for
his crime.
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