“You are drawing, I see,” he remarked, rather huskily. “Yes,” said she. Then, as there was a pause which her companion evidently did not know how to fill, she added, glancing first at her paper, and then at the pond in front of her, “It doesn’t look much like it yet, does it?” “I dare say it will look more like when it is finished.” “No, it won’t,” said Miss Lane, candidly; “that is the worst of it. I can’t draw, though I really do try very hard.” “Then why do you give yourself all the trouble of trying?” Harry felt that his share in the talk was not in the style he had intended, but her rather stiff simplicity of manner disconcerted him. “It is an excuse for coming out of doors.” “An excuse? I never want one. I only want excuses for not coming home. I hate houses--they are so beastly stuffy; don’t you think so?” He felt he was getting further and further from the lover-like manner which was to overcome Miss Lane; but he could not help it. She considered a little before answering. “I like houses too--some houses, I wonder you don’t like yours. I think it is one of the nicest I have ever been in.” “Do you? Do you like it better than the Vicarage?” “Oh, yes! The Vicarage is only a place to eat and drink and sleep in!” she said, scornfully. “As for the drawing-room, everything in it is an insult to one’s eyes.” “I suppose you mean that it is not artistic,” said Harry. “But it isn’t the furniture that insults me; it is the people. I feel as if I were in church, or as if I had had a bucket of cold water over me when I didn’t expect it, directly I get inside the house.” “Oh, don’t say that! They are all very kind.” “Then you like the Vicarage people better than the Grange people?” “I did not say that. But I know them better.” “Oh, yes; I remember! You said we were a set of brutes.” He felt that this was worse and worse; he was getting positively rude. “I have never said anything of the kind, Mr. Braithwaite,” said she, coldly. “Didn’t you tell Stephen that George and I were brutes?” “I did say it was brutal to box your sister’s ears and knock your brother down just because they contradicted you; and I think so,” said Miss Lane, quietly. “But it was about you. It was because they wouldn’t tell me where you were, and wouldn’t let me see you home.” “That doesn’t make any difference.”