She looked at him, not touching the flowers, her smile faintly quizzical. “You can sit on a corner of this rug if you like. It is rather a ragged affair, but it serves its purpose.”
She indicated the corner furthest from her, and Rotherby dropped down upon it with a satisfied air. “Oh, this is a loafer’s paradise. How are you getting on, Miss Thorold? You look—” he regarded her critically—“you look like one who has bathed in magic dew.”
She met his look, her own wholly impersonal. “I feel rather like that,” she said. “It has been a wonderful fortnight. I am quite ready for work.”
He leaned upon his elbow, still carelessly watching her. “Have you learnt to milk cows yet?” he asked.
“Well, no!” She laughed a little. “But I have several times watched the operation. You saw that girl just now, driving the cows back to pasture for the night. She comes from such a dear old farm on the moor called Tetherstones. I have stood at the door of the cowshed and watched her. She is wonderfully quick at it.”
“Is she going to give you lessons?” he said idly.
“I haven’t got to the point of asking her yet. We only pass the time of day when we meet.”
Frances picked up her sketching-block again. Her hand was quite steady now.
“May I see?” said Rotherby.
“When it is finished,” she said.