The next morning Lucy knocked at the door. She had got her outdoor clothes on, and had a bunch of flowers in her hand.
"Oh, I beg your pardon," she said, blushing timidly, "but I have been for a run. I always go into Covent Garden, and—and I brought some flowers. I thought you would not mind, would not think it intrusive; but I am so fond of flowers myself——."
Leslie made her come in and sit down, while she got a glass for the flowers. Lucy looked round and saw the easel. Leslie had put the pictures out of sight.
"Are you an artist, Miss Lisle?" she asked timidly.
"No, oh no. It was my father——."
"Yes, yes. I see," said Lucy quickly. "It is so hard to paint or draw, isn't it? That is where I shall fail, I expect. You see, I have never been able to get any tuition. I suppose you can draw?"
"Yes, a little," said Leslie.
"And play? But of course!"
"Yes," said Leslie.
Lucy sighed, not enviously, but admiringly.