Puff—puff—puff.
Then there was something that made the society of her own thoughts unpleasant—almost intolerable.
Mr. Arthur Merlin vigorously rubbed out with a piece of stale bread a false line he had drawn.
What is that something—or some-bod-y?
He stopped sketching, and puffed for a long time.
As he returned at sunset Hope Wayne was standing upon the piazza of the hotel.
“Have you been successful?” asked she, dawning upon him.
“You shall judge.”
He showed her his sketch of a tree-stump.
“Good; but a little careless,” she said.