"You paint, yourself, Miss Foster?"
"No, I only try to. I wish I could."
She reluctantly yielded her block of Whatman's paper to Jack, and in the portfolio attached to it he found several sketches that showed real promise. He frankly said as much, to his companion's delight, and then the conversation turned on the quaintness of Strand-on-the-Green, and the constant and varied beauty of the river at this point—a subject that was full of genuine interest to both. When the sun passed below the bridge the girl suddenly rose and gathered her things.
"I must go," she said. "My father is coming home early to-day. Good-by, Mr. Vernon."
"Not really good-by. I hope?"
An expression of sorrow and pain, almost pitiful, clouded her lovely face. Jack understood the meaning of it, and hated Stephen Foster in his heart.
"I shall see you here sometimes?" he added.
"Perhaps."
"Then you do not forbid me to come again?"
"How can I do that? This river walk is quite free, Mr. Vernon. Oh, please don't think me ungrateful, but—but—"