He couldn't fail to note the air of proprietorship.
"What should I be doing?" and he made a gesture toward his idle easel.
"Why didn't you answer my letters?"
"I have never received them. No mail has been forwarded here."
"Oh!" And then: "I didn't know just what to think—unless that you had gone back to Normandy."
"I'm going next month. Meanwhile I rented Thimble Island—"
"I wrote you that I was coming here to 'Wake-Robin,' Miss Challoner's place," she said pettishly, "and that I was sure there would be one or two commissions for you in the neighborhood if you cared to come."
"It was very kind of you. I'm sorry. It's a little too late now. I'm due at Havre in August."
She made a gesture of mock helplessness.
"There. I thought so. My plans for you never seem to work out. It's really quite degrading the way I'm pursuing you. It almost seems as if you didn't want me"