“I don’t know,” said he, rather blankly. “If I am, I’m an unsuccessful one. And my medium is not paint and brushes, but pen and ink.”
“Oh, a writer? That’s nice too!”
“It would be nicer,” said he, drily, “if the medium could be print.”
“That will come! That will come! You are not very old.” Then, after an instant’s pause, during which she seemed to be gathering up some lost impressions, she said suddenly, “But I must be thinking of getting back!”
“Won’t you wait for—for the boat?” stammered Repton.
She had already moved a few paces away, but she paused, and said, smiling,—
“Oh, no, I can’t. You will thank your friend for me. I’m sorry he should have taken that trouble.” She turned away, bowing as she did so, but suddenly changed her mind and came back to them. There was a strange thoughtfulness and gravity in her face and manner as she repeated a former question,—
“And you are going back to England—London—soon? In a fortnight?”
Wondering and disconcerted, they both assented. She looked down for a moment, and then raised her head abruptly.
“Would you take a parcel to England—not for me, but to oblige one of my friends?”