The girl smiled. "I scarcely know him, auntie," she said.
"Well, dear," said her mother, folding her work, "I think it's bedtime. You must be tired, too."
Mrs. Manning always thought one must be tired. Curiously enough, she was so nice about it that one forgot to be irritated.
In her own room Ursula uncovered her picture and had a look at it. She read a little. Then she sat on awhile, staring out of the window. Then she got up, fetched her portfolio and looked through its contents. When she reached the little water-colour she had done to illustrate Paul's poem, she put it on one side—thereafter by itself on her mantelpiece. Then she went to bed.
In the morning she announced the intention of taking a walk. Everyone placidly agreed, as they did from force of habit where Ursula was concerned, and her mother came to the gate with her and watched her away in her yellow jumper, with a green scarf and skirt. Mrs. Manning was very proud of her daughter. She did not ask where she was going, however.
Paul, after a late breakfast, strolled out on to the terrace. He was turning over the phrases of his letter to Tressor when he saw the girl coming up the drive. He went to meet her. It crossed his mind that she might be bringing a message from her mother.
"Hullo," he said, when he was within speaking distance. "Good morning. How are you?"
"Very well," she said. "Busy?"
"Not particularly," replied Paul ruefully. "I was just about to write a beastly letter."
She looked him frankly in the face. "How's the poetry going?" she asked.