“But they shine so,” she said; “one can’t make them glisten. And the heather is very difficult, too. But that I have tried.”
She showed her sketch-book, containing more flower studies and a few landscapes.
“I should like to sketch,” said Guy, as he looked, and made a few comments.
“But you could, I think, because you can see. And it is very interesting. It is impossible to think of anything in the world but the thing you are drawing. That is all I have. My sister and all of them are just behind the harebell rock—shall we come?”
Guy followed, and in a few minutes they were looking down on a cheery group gathered in a hollow of the ground—five skirts and hats among the heather. One or two little puffs of steam showed where the sophisticated “Etnas” were boiling the water, and in the midst Constancy, in a red blouse and brown cap, was evidently concluding an argument.
“Very likely we might like it as well as they did, if we had the same opportunities.”
“Cosy! you’re a traitor. As if we want young men to come and interrupt us, like those dreadful girls in—”
“Mr Waynflete,” said Florella, descending upon the party.
Violet Staunton, who was the last speaker, sank into the heather with a gasp, and a sensation ran through the party. Constancy stood up and held out her hand.
“Mr Waynflete, we are abusing Miss Austen’s heroines for liking visitors. But, you know, we promised to give you some tea.”