"Mr. Kermit Sutherland," he announced, his tone indicating that the person about to enter was a bit less than a gentleman, but a trace higher than a tradesman. He stepped aside. Uncertain what to expect, I found the breath catching in my chest as Mr. Sutherland strode into the parlor. He was quite the most unusual man I had ever seen. Craggy faced, clean-shaven, with a sleek mane of deep red-brown hanging straight and silky below the level of his wide shoulders. He paused just inside the door, staring at me. I know I colored under his scrutiny. No gentleman would ever stare so openly and so penetratingly at a lady. Fortesque's instinct had been correct. He spoke without looking at Mother. "This is the young woman I am to paint?" The slight emphasis on the first word held a hint of scorn. "This is my daughter, Miss Wayman." A slight lift of Mother's chins signaled me to stand. I did so, reluctantly, feeling as if his deep-set, dark eyes were seeing right through my clothing.
