THE REFUGEE
Autumn on a Yorkshire moor.
Hilda Davenant leaned back and looked from her sketch to the moor with slight dissatisfaction in her calm eyes.
"What's the matter with it?" said Lord Percy.
He was lying in the faded heather beside her, sucking grass-stems with bovine enjoyment. He surveyed the faint pucker on his wife's forehead with lazy amusement.
She looked down at him. "It isn't nearly good enough."
He laughed comfortably. "Put it away! It'll do for my birthday. I shan't look at it from an artist's point of view."
She smiled a little. "Oh, any daub would do for you. You simply don't know what art is."
"Exactly," he rejoined tranquilly. "Any daub will do, provided your hand lays on the colours. But nothing less than that would satisfy me. Come! Isn't that a pretty speech? And you didn't angle for it either!" He caught her hand and rubbed it against his cheek. "You are civilizing me wonderfully," he declared. "I never knew how to make pretty speeches before I met you."
"Surely I never taught you that!" she protested. "I am never guilty of empty compliments myself."