"I—I am tired, very tired," she said, going to him and leaning her head on his shoulder.
"You've walked too far," he said in a tone of complaint. "You'd better go to bed at once. The receipt and the letter must wait till to-morrow, I suppose. Oh, there was something—oh, yes; did you see the duke? He came up to me on the beach and inquired for you."
She turned away from him, a lump rising in her throat and threatening to suffocate her.
"Yes."
"Did he say anything about that sketch of St. Martin's?"
St. Martin's! How the name brought back the memory of that happy, happy day.
"I don't quite know about that sketch," he went on with an air of importance. "I may be too much engaged on important pictures to—er—spare any time for small sketches. However, that matter can rest for the present. The duke has gone back to London to-night, they tell me. By the way, I wish you would prepare a fresh canvas for me."
"Not to-night, oh, not to-night, dear!" she said in a low voice. "I will go to bed as you said, for I am very, very tired. To-morrow——."
She left the sentence unfinished, and crept up to her own room.