She was struggling to suppress her laughter. At the look of surprise on his face, she burst forth in such a gale of merriment that the little glade was filled with the music of her glee; while, in spite of himself, the painter joined.
"Oh!" she cried, "but that is funny! I am glad, glad!"
"Now, what do you mean by that?" he demanded.
"Why--why--that's exactly what I was trying to get courage enough to confess to you!" she gasped. And then she told him how she had spied upon him from the arbor in the rose garden; and how, in his absence, she had visited his studio.
"But how in the world did you get in? The place was always locked, when I was away."
"Oh," she said quaintly, "there was a good genie who let me in through the keyhole. I didn't meddle with anything, you know--I just looked at the beautiful room where you work. And I didn't glance, even, at the picture on the easel. The genie told me you wouldn't like that. I would not have drawn the curtain anyway, even if I hadn't been told. At least, I don't think I would--but perhaps I might--I can't always tell what I'm going to do, you know."
Suddenly, the artist remembered finding the studio door open with Conrad Lagrange's key in the lock, and how the novelist had berated himself with such exaggerated vehemence; and, in a flash, came the thought of James Rutlidge's visit, that afternoon, and of his strange manner and insinuating remarks.
"I think I know the name of your good genie," said the painter, facing the girl, seriously. "But tell me, did no one disturb you while you were in the studio?"
Her cheeks colored painfully, and all the laughter was gone from her voice as she replied, "I didn't want you to know that part."
"But I must know," he insisted gravely.