"It isn't bad," said Marshby, unconsciously straightening. "Go ahead,
Jerome. Turn us all into field-marshals."

"Not all," objected Wilmer, seeming to dash his brush at the canvas with
the large carelessness that promised his best work. "The jobs wouldn't
go round. But I don't feel the worse for it when I see the recruity
stepping out, promotion in his eye."

After the sitting, Wilmer went yawning forward, and with a hand on
Marshby's shoulder, took him to the door.

"Can't let you look at the thing," he said, as Marshby gave one backward
glance. "That's against the code. Till it's done, no eye touches it but
mine and the light of heaven."

Marshby had no curiosity. He smiled, and thereafter let the picture
alone, even to the extent of interested speculation. Mary had
scrupulously absented herself from that first sitting; but after it was
over and Marshby had gone home, Wilmer found her in the garden, under an
apple-tree, shelling pease. He lay down on the ground, at a little
distance, and watched her. He noted the quick, capable turn of her
wrist and the dexterous motion of the brown hands as they snapped out
the pease, and he thought how eminently sweet and comfortable it would
be to take this bit of his youth back to France with him, or even to
give up France and grow old with her at home.

"Mary," said he, "I sha'n't paint any picture of you this summer."

Mary laughed, and brushed back a yellow lock with the back of her hand.