"Of course not," replied Phil simply. "How can one voluntarily live without the other a day after the great discovery is made?"
Kathleen made no answer to this. The lump that rose in her throat was rebellious; and the artist, looking up suddenly, met fire in the depths of her dark eyes. The lids dropped. His hand grew suddenly unsteady.
"Tell me when you're tired, Kathleen," he said. "We have the summer." He smiled as he spoke; but it was a rigid sort of smile.
The field sown thickly with the late wild-flowers of the island, and stretching to a sparkling sea, the rustling orchard leaves, and the crown of bay behind the queenly young head, the soft white figure with the loosely dropped hands! It was no time or place for Kathleen to look at him like that.
"I'm tired now, I believe," she said, quietly. "Will it be enough for to-day?"
"At least until you're rested. Come in and let me show you a sketch I did yesterday."
She rose and lifted her white shoulders with a movement of weariness, then they moved inside the room.
A vase of daisies stood on the table. "I believe," said Phil, "I should have asked you to wear daisies in your hair."
They were standing by the table and he took three of the long stems and breaking them to convenient length made a movement toward her head. Then he shrank. "Put them in, will you?" he asked.