Her glance wandered again to the picture. "Not yet finished," she murmured. "Has he forgotten his promise? For some time past he has been quite strange; he seems preoccupied, distraught, anxious even—at times his mind seems to be far away." And a thousand ideas flitted through her mind, only to be dismissed as all equally absurd.
Suddenly she uttered a little cry of surprise, to find the vigorous arms of her husband clasped around her waist.
"What is my little wife thinking of so deeply that she does not notice the sound of her husband's footsteps?" said Philip.
"Of you," said Dora, laughing, "and of these flowers."
"They have come again, eh?" said Philip, taking up his palette and brushes.
"Yes; who sends them?"
"That is what I should like to know. As I told you before, an old admirer of yours, I daresay."
"Nonsense, you know better. As I said before, some old sweetheart of yours—far more likely," replied Dora.
Then looking her husband straight in the eyes, she added—
"Confess."