CHAPTER XI.
Isabel and Ada were alone at Knightswell for a week. Though not in reality nearer to each other, their intercourse was easier than formerly, and chiefly owing to a change in Ada’s manner. Her character seemed to be losing some of its angularities, she was less given to remarks of brusque originality, and entertained common subjects without scornful impatience. She had grown much older in the past six months. The two did not unduly tax each others tolerance; during a great part of the day, indeed, they kept apart; but at meals and in the evenings they found topics for conversation. Ada was taking a holiday; she got as much fresh air as possible, and sketched a good deal.
“Ada, I don’t think you have ever given me one of your sketches,” Isabel said to her one evening, after praising a little water-colour drawn that day.
“Would you care for one?”
“Yes, I should.”
“Any one in particular?”
“Let me see. Yes; I should like the sketch you made of the cottage at Wood End. If you’ll give it me I’ll have it framed for the boudoir.”
Ada kept her eyes fixed on the drawing she held.
“Will you?”
She gazed directly at the speaker; Isabel met her look with steady countenance.