"Of course I will. I happen to be in search of a type of the genuine moor woman, too, and perhaps she will oblige me."
"Griff, Griff! Always on the hunt for people to dip your brush into. I sometimes wish you were not quite so full of your work."
"It's all right, mother," laughed the other, as he made her take advantage of his arm up the side of the brae; "I try to keep a tight hand on it, and only let it out when it ought to be let out."
But the laugh died on his lips: they were close to the bit of intake that guarded Peewit from the moor, and Kate Strangeways was leaning over the gate. Griff had dreamed of that pure-bred moor woman of his for many a year, and it seemed to him that he had found her at last in the flesh; she had the lissom strength of figure, the lips that were clear-cut for tenderness or scorn, the resolute hazel eyes, all just as he had imagined them.
"Mother, she is beautiful!" he whispered.
The old lady looked hard at him; then laughed, a dry, uncertain laugh.
"Let her be just a type, Griff, dear; don't dwell too much on the flesh and blood."
Once the first shock of surprise was over, Lomax was disposed to laugh at himself touching his half-second of emotion. He warmed to the thought of canvas and palette; he saw fine capabilities in the handling of this moor woman by a man who had the same peat salt in his fibres.
"Well, mother, I have my chance at last," he said, as they came away. "That type is absolutely new in art; I can only pray that I may not spoil her in the drawing."
Her laugh had no uneasiness in it now; she saw that Kate Strangeways, the actual, had very little to do with that swift light of enthusiasm on Griff's face.