“Oh, well—I suppose so,” was her not too heartening response; but on the way downstairs a thought brightened her. Perhaps Renfrew might know something about a dark young man—a painter—lately come to town.
He was blank upon this subject, however, as she discovered when they had seated themselves upon a wicker settee on the veranda. “No,” he said. “I haven’t heard of any artist that’s come here lately. Where’d you hear about one?”
“Oh, around,” she said casually. “I’m not absolutely certain he’s an artist, but I got that idea somewhere. The reason I wanted to know is because I thought he might be one of the new group that have broken away, like Matisse and Gaugin.”
“Who?”
“Never mind. Haven’t you heard of anybody at all that’s a stranger here—visiting somebody, perhaps?”
“Not exactly,” Renfrew replied, thinking it over conscientiously. “I don’t believe I have, exactly.”
“What do you mean, you don’t think you have ‘exactly’?” she asked irritably. “Have you, or haven’t you?”
“Well,” he said, “my Aunt Milly from Burnetsville is visiting my cousins, the Thomases, but she’s an invalid and you probably wouldn’t——”
“No, I wouldn’t!” Muriel said. “Don’t strain your mind any more, Renfrew.”
“I could inquire around,” he suggested. “I thought it wouldn’t likely be my aunt, but you said ‘anybody at all.’ ”