Mrs. Lowell regarded Gayne's flushed countenance as he picked up the tools and pushed them behind a screen.
"Your still-life studies, appropriate to an abandoned farm?" she laughed.
"They don't look very artistic, I must say," returned Gayne. "Of course, I'm an amateur of the amateurs," he went on, picking up the portfolio (he pronounced it amatoor), "but a man is all the better for having a fad, no matter how footless. Since you are here and have caught me red-handed, you may as well know the worst."
He opened the portfolio and threw down a couple of crayon sketches of woods, water, and rocks.
"But these are good!" exclaimed Mrs. Lowell, in a tone of such astonishment that it could scarcely be considered complimentary.
Gayne shrugged his shoulders, as Diana, looking over her friend, added her approval.
"I make no pretensions," he repeated. "I amuse myself."
His guests lingered a minute over the sketches, then looked about the forlorn old homestead, but as each step was closely accompanied by Gayne, they soon took their departure, passing the stranger on his knoll as they walked toward the sea, over grassy hill and fragrant spruce-filled hollow. The stranger, as they passed, kept his hands folded behind him and stared stolidly ahead.
"Were you ever more astonished?" asked Mrs. Lowell in a low tone as if the balsamic breeze could carry her words back.