“You could augment a living,” he said.
“Ah! But one needs interest for that. And I—” she hesitated—“I don’t think I am very good at pushing my wares.”
He laughed. “Well, I’ll supply the interest—such as it is. I’ll do my best anyway. You go on sketching for a bit, and I’ll come and look on and admire. Shall I?”
She gave him a steady look. “When are you going to begin your book?”
“Oh, that!” he spoke with easy assurance. “That’ll have to keep for a bit. I’m not in the mood for it yet. By and by,—in the winter——”
Her face changed a little. “In that case,” she said, slowly, “I ought to set about finding another post.”
“Oh, rot!” said Montague with lightness. “Why?”
She turned from her steady regard of him, and looked down at the sketch in her hand. “Because,” she said, her voice chill and constrained as was its habit in moments of emotion, “I haven’t money to carry me on till then. I shouldn’t have wasted this fortnight if I had known.”
“It hasn’t been wasted,” argued Montague, still careless and unimpressed. “You couldn’t have done without it.”
She did not lift her eyes. “It is quite true I needed a rest,” she said, “but I could have employed the time in trying to find another post. I could have advertised. I could have answered advertisements.”