"It's mine," he cried. "Hurray!" and went out of the house again and across the field toward the boulder cottage.
CHAPTER XXII
THE NEW STUDIO
In spite of the incense Edgar had been receiving, he was still a somewhat chastened being; and he had no disagreeable remarks to make about Phil when Mrs. Fabian wondered why he stayed so long at the Wright cottage. He objected to the fact somewhat on his own account. No doubt Violet was entertaining Philip. She had the artistic soul and Phil was horribly good-looking. It was a soothing thought that he was practically penniless and that he must soon return to his labors in New York.
"How long are you expecting Phil to stay here?" he asked his mother after a glance or two across the empty field.
"He says only a week," replied Mrs. Fabian, "but I hope to make it at least two. He's daft about the island."
"But he couldn't work here," said Edgar with conviction. "You've no place for oil and turpentine and splotches generally."
"That's what he says," sighed Mrs. Fabian. "I told him this morning we'd give up the summer-house to him."