Sitting down in front of Olive, the dog lifts his right paw and gravely places it in her little hand.
“Now the other!” cries his master—and he repeats the performance with the left, looking up into her face with such soft, pleading eyes.
“There,” says Roy’s master. “You don’t deserve to be treated so generously, you bad dog. And now”—turning to Olive—“will you let me try and remedy the mischief? There must be fresh water somewhere about the cliffs.”
“Oh, I couldn’t think of troubling you to that extent. Besides I am not bound to draw this morning. I have a book here, and would just as soon read instead.”
But this does not meet the stranger’s views at all. He intends to talk to this girl, now that a fortunate chance has put it in his power to do so. He can do so while she is drawing—hardly if she reads. So he answers, but without eagerness:
“It will be no trouble at all. And I think you ought to draw this morning, because it is just one of those days which are built for that purpose. You can read at home, but you can’t reproduce this perfect bit of coast anywhere but here. So I’ll start off upon my errand of reparation before you are angry with me for presuming to lecture you,” and picking up the little canister away he goes.
Olive laughs softly to herself as she looks after him. He is so cool and self-possessed, and then his voice, too, is a very pleasing one. Who can he be? She hopes he will return soon with or without the water, and not be in a very great hurry to continue his walk. Then she is the least bit in the world frightened. What would Margaret, for instance, say if she could see her sitting in this out-of-the-way corner of the seashore, talking to a man who is a perfect stranger? And how the tongues of Wandsborough would clack—a phase of exercise, by the way, to which those unruly members were by no means unaccustomed. Anyhow she can see at a glance that the man is thoroughbred. If he is making any stay in Wandsborough, as she is inclined to think is the case, she is sure to meet him sooner or later, so why not forestall the acquaintance? If he is not, why then in all probability she will never see him again, and in either case there is no harm done. She is thus musing, when the object of her reflections appears at her side, as suddenly as he did before.
“I have been successful,” he says, setting down the canister very carefully. “But I am afraid you were waxing impatient.”
“Not at all. I think you have been very quick, and I did hope you would be able to find me some water, for I feel in the humour for daubing just now.”
“Good. And now allow me to arrange the necessary articles,” and without waiting for an answer he opens her colour-box and sets her palettes and brushes in order.