One afternoon I left my little summer-seat, where I had been sitting at work, and went through the house, and down the precipice, into my husband's study.
"It is so hot," I said, "I will try my little grotto: it may be cooler."
He opened the door for me, and, with his palette on his thumb, and a brush in his hand, sat down for a moment beside me.
"This heat is too much for you, darling," he said.
"I do feel it. I wish I could get from the garden into my nest without going up through the house and down the Jacob's ladder," I said. "It is so hot! I never felt heat like it before."
He sat silent for a while, and then said,—
"I've been thinking I must get you into the country for a few weeks. It would do you no end of good."
"I suppose the wind does blow somewhere," I returned. "But"—
"You don't want to leave me?" he said.
"I don't. And I know with that ugly portrait on hand you can't go with me."