Looking very hot and exhausted, Shiel Davenport threw down his spade and attempted to make himself presentable.
"His clothes will be ruined, Father," Gladys said, indignantly.
"They're not his clothes—he's wearing an old suit of mine," John Martin explained, trying to appear unconcerned.
Shiel forced a laugh. "I'm rather out of form, Miss Martin, I haven't had much exercise lately."
"You're getting it now anyway," John Martin chuckled.
"And it's blistered your hands horribly!" Gladys cried, pointing to several raw places. "I will fetch you a pair of father's gloves—he's a brute!"
"Please don't trouble," Shiel exclaimed, "I'll use my handkerchief instead. Digging is even harder work than painting—in one way."
"It's not fit work for you," Gladys replied with another reproachful glance at her father. "When did you arrive, I never heard you?"
"I 'phoned to him last night," John Martin said, looking rather sheepish. "I thought a day out here would do him good. He thought so too, and came on by the seven o'clock train. We've been digging ever since breakfast—but a bit of exercise won't hurt him, and I'll give him plenty of vaseline presently."
They resumed work again; and Gladys retired indoors. At eleven o'clock John Martin let Shiel go. "You can amuse yourself till luncheon with books and papers," he said, "you'll find plenty of them in my study. I'll join you later."