But he gets up and follows her, and they make their way back. As they emerge on the hill-side, they find that the wind has dropped, and is sighing across the downs rather plaintively; and Yorke, looking up, sees a cloud, which, though it is not much bigger than a man's hand, is full of warning.
"Did you happen to bring an umbrella with you?" he asks, with affected carelessness.
Leslie laughs.
"Not even a sunshade. Why?"
"Nothing," he says, inwardly calling himself opprobrious names for not providing the Englishman's traveling companion.
"Do you think it is going to rain?" she asks. "Oh, no, it isn't possible."
"Everything is possible in this charming climate of ours," he says. "Well, Mr. Lisle, how are you getting on?" he asks, as they go up to the artist, still hard at work.
He looks up with a start. To him they have only been absent, say, a quarter of an hour.
"It is difficult," he says. "Very. One needs time—time."
"We'd better come another day," says Yorke. "Oh, you have got on famously," and he keeps his countenance capitally as he looks at the sketch. "I'll carry your easel," and he folds it up, and puts it over his shoulder.