“We shall be so happy then. Then we shall take our old rambles, Edward, though in new regions, and will resume the pencil, if you wish it.”
This was said timidly.
“To be sure I wish it. But why do you say, 'resume'? Have you not been painting all along?”
“No! I have scarcely smeared canvass the last two months”
“But you have been sketching?”
“No!”
“What employed you then in the studio? How have you passed your mornings?”
This inquiry was made abruptly, but it did not disturb her. Her answer was strangely satisfactory.
“I have scarcely looked in upon the studio in all that time.”
I longed to ask what Edgerton had done with himself, and whether he had been suffered to employ himself alone, in his morning visits, but my tongue faltered—I somehow dared not. Still, it was something to have her assurance that she had not found her attractions in that apartment in which my jealous fancy had assumed that she took particular delight. She had spoken with the calmness of innocence, and I was too happy to believe her. I put my arms about her waist.