"Yes, I have a work-room over here," replied Phil vaguely. His wits were about him when he contemplated the disconcerting possibility of Ernest's sturdy little legs finding their way up his stable stair.
"I want to show this to mother," said the child, gloating over his sketch. Phil had used no anæmic colors in that. The lilacs were of a generous purple, the robin's vest a royal red. When he had thanked the artist and they had parted, Ernest prattled of his treasure as he walked on beside Violet.
"He's a proud bird," he said, half-soliloquizing after his kind. "He wants the world to listen when he sings; and his eyes are so bright, when he sees a worm coming along he gobbles him quick, and then he looks prouder than ever."
Violet's thoughts were busy, and somewhat gloomy. Edgar had spoken patronizingly to her of the big Western artist who had fallen into their family circle.
Of whom was Phil thinking that gave him so much amusement while he sketched the robin?
Violet was not sure whether her mental disturbance was more resentment toward the artist, or hurt that Edgar Fabian should declare that he had been bored at the island.
CHAPTER XV
JUNE