"If I wanted to paint ever so much," she said, "I couldn't; I haven't any materials. No colors, no canvas——"
He raised himself on his elbow.
"Oh, that's an easy matter; we can get all that at Ilfracombe. I'll go and get them; it's only a walk, or I can take the boat."
Margaret stopped him with a gesture of curiosity.
"Blair, there is that woman I spoke to you about last night," she said; "there, on that rock."
"What woman?" he asked, without moving.
"That young woman dressed in mourning," said Margaret. "I have seen her three times. I think she must be a widow."
"Oh," he said lazily; "I dare say. Well, about these said drawing materials. I'll walk into Ilfracombe, and get them. No; you sha'n't go. It is too hot, and you will get a headache."
"And do you think I will let you go all that way to gratify a whim which you have fastened upon me, you silly boy?" she said. "Seriously, Blair—don't trouble."
"But that is just what I mean to do," he said. "I don't want you to be bored, even for a moment; and I should feel happier myself if I could see you with your beloved paints and turpentine. You shall make a sketch of Appleford—and we'll hang it up wherever we go, and look at it when we are quite old, so that we may remember that we were 'too happy,' eh, Madge?" and he put his arm round her and kissed her.