When that was over—and a very good dinner it was, just what I like, homely in material but admirable in cooking—Wynnie and Percivale and I set out again. For as Percivale and I came back in the morning we had seen the church standing far aloft and aloof on the other side of the little valley, and we wanted to go to it. It was rather a steep climb, and Wynnie accepted Percivale's offered arm. I led the way, therefore, and left them to follow—not so far in the rear, however, but that I could take a share in the conversation. It was some little time before any arose, and it was Wynnie who led the way into it.
"What kind of things do you like best to paint, Mr. Percivale?" she asked.
He hesitated for several seconds, which between a question and an answer look so long, that most people would call them minutes.
"I would rather you should see some of my pictures—I should prefer that to answering your question," he said, at length.
"But I have seen some of your pictures," she returned.
"Pardon me. Indeed you have not, Miss Walton."
"At least I have seen some of your sketches and studies."
"Some of my sketches—none of my studies."
"But you make use of your sketches for your pictures, do you not?"
"Never of such as you have seen. They are only a slight antidote to my pictures."