Blair laughed.
"Trust Austin to keep a thing secret," he said. "He is the best man in the world at this sort of thing. Now, I should blare out the whole story to the first man I met; but Austin! Oh, Austin could keep his lips shut till he died!"
Margaret looked out to sea, and sighed.
"Now, what does that mean?" he demanded instantly. "Are you tired? Would you like to go in-doors? Are you—unhappy?"
She laughed slowly and softly.
"I think I am too happy!" she said in a low voice. "Blair, it seems to me sometimes as if there were something wicked in being so happy! We are told, you know, that there is no real happiness in this world, and that joy cannot last. If it is true, then—then——" she let her lovely eyes rest upon him doubtfully.
"Nonsense, my darling!" he retorted. "Don't believe it! We were all meant to be happy, but some of us have missed the way. I know what is the matter with you."
"What?" she demanded, her fingers clinging to his lovingly.
"Why, you feel strange without your work. You are an artist, don't you know; and you haven't touched a brush for—well, for seven days. That's bad for you. Oh, I know. I am a simple idiot, but I understand all about this sort of thing. You want to paint. Well, do it," and he threw himself back with a confident air.
Margaret laughed.