“Glad of that, anyhow,” was the artist’s thanksgiving. “Your praise is worth having.”
“I’ve worked very hard,” the lady said; “but I’m afraid I can talk better than I paint.”
“Ah, we all do that.”
“Yes,” she said, “that’s the worst of it.” They paused: she patted her horse, he looked with narrowed eyes into the weather. Presently she said, “I suppose you couldn’t come and see my things—and bring some of your own—could you, do you think? My people would be delighted.” He looked at her, considering.
“So should I be—charmed. Yes, I’ll come if you mean it. When?”
“Of course I mean it,” Miss de Speyne rejoined. “Could you come to luncheon, the day after to-morrow? That’s Sunday.”
“I know it is,” he said with a laugh. “What a heathen you think me! Yes, I’ll certainly come. But—where are you, exactly?”
“Misperton Brand—Misperton Park. You go through the village, and a little way beyond the Rectory you come to a lodge.”
“Oh, I know it!” Then he laughed at his memories. “I’ll tell you afterwards—after luncheon. Thanks, I’ll come. But I must be back pretty early in the afternoon.”
“Your own time, of course.” She gathered up her reins. “Till Sunday,” she said with a nod. He bowed—hatless as before. Miss de Speyne pushed homeward; and Mary Middleham, with hot splashes of colour in her cheeks, returned to her fallen bicycle, and never looked behind.