"You might be going to paint my picture. Now are you content?"
"I'm more or less pacified—for the moment."
Stephen Aikenhead lounged across the lawn, pipe in mouth. He noticed the two and shook his shaggy head—marking, questioning, finding it all very natural, seeing the trouble it might bring, without a formula to try it by—unless, here too, things were in solution.
She laughed lightly. "You must be careful with me, Mr. Ledstone. Remember I'm not used to flattery!"
"The things you have been used to! Good heavens!"
"I dare say I exaggerate." Delicately she asked for more pity, more approval.
"I don't believe you do. I believe there are worse things—things you can't speak of." It will be seen that by now—ten days since Winnie's arrival—the famous promise had been pitched most completely overboard.
"Oh, I don't think so, really I don't. Isn't it a pretty sky, Mr. Ledstone?"
"Indeed it is, and a pretty world too, Mrs. Maxon. Haven't you found it so?"
"Why will you go on talking about me?"