“That's right; we had set our hearts on it. You are looking very tired. I hope Saturday did not upset you?”
“No,” said Erica. “But there have been a good many worries, and I have not yet learned the art of taking life quietly.”
“You are overdone, you want a rest,” said Donovan, whose keen and practiced observation had at once noticed her delicate physique and peculiar temperament. “You are a poet, you see, and as a wise man once remarked: 'The poetic temperament is one of singular irritability of nerve.'”
Erica laughed.
“I am no poet!”
“Not a writer of verses, but a poet in the sense of a maker, an artist. As a reader of the 'Daily Review,' you must allow me to judge. Brian once showed me one of your articles, and I always recognize them now by the style.”
“I don't deserve the name of artist one bit,” said Erica, coloring. “I would give all I have to destroy my article of today. You have not seen that, or you would not have given me such a name.
“Yes, I have seen it; I read it this morning at breakfast, and made up my mind that you wrote it on Friday evening, after Lady Caroline's dinner. I can understand that you hate the thing now. One gets a sharp lesson every now and then, and it lasts one a life time.”
Erica signed.. He resumed.
“Well! Are you coming to Oakdene with me?”