Margaret rose, went to meet her, and putting her arm in hers, turned her towards the orange walk. "Come and stroll a while," she said.
"You are tired, Margaret; I wish you didn't have so much care," said Garda, affectionately, as she looked at her. "Mrs. Rutherford isn't worse, I hope?"
"No; she is sleeping," Margaret answered. After a pause: "You heard from Evert this morning, I believe?"
"Yes; didn't I show you the letter? I meant to. I think it's in my pocket now," and searching, she produced a crumpled missive.
Margaret took it. Mechanically her fingers smoothed out its creases, but she did not open it. "You have been out for a walk?" she said at last, with something of an effort.
But Garda did not notice the effort; she was enjoying her own life very fully that afternoon. "No," she answered. Then she laughed. "You could not possibly guess where I have been."
"I am afraid I couldn't make the effort to-day."
"And you shall not—I'll tell you; I've been in the green studio. Fortunately you haven't the least idea where that is."
"Have you taken to painting, then?"
"No; painting has taken to me. Lucian has been here."