June’s eyes were fire; her cheek flamed like a peony. “Go and look for your beautiful windmills, and leave my hands alone.”
But the owner of the beautiful hands was now fettered by the knowledge that she was beginning to blush horribly.
VII
In the evening of the next day, about half an hour before supper, June climbed the attic stairs and knocked boldly upon the studio door.
“Come in,” a gentle voice invited her.
William, a lump of cotton wool in one hand, the mysterious bottle in the other, was absorbed in the task of looking for a windmill. He had to own, the queer fellow, that so far success had not crowned his search.
“I should think not,” said June, uncompromisingly.
“But there are the trees.” William took up a knife and laid the point to a canvas that was already several tones lighter than of yore.
There was a pause while June screwed up her eyes like an expert; and in consequence she had reluctantly to admit that they were unmistakable trees.
“And now we are coming to the water, don’t you see?” said the young man in a tone of quiet ecstasy.