He was sorry when she said the sun was getting too hot for her, and she went and lay on the rug he had spread for her in the shade of the oak. She had brought a book to read, but she only read a line here and there. Her thoughts followed the white clouds for a while, and then she admired the man sitting easily on his camp-stool, his long legs wide apart. His small head, his big hat, the line of his bent back amused and interested her; she liked his abrupt speech, and wondered if she could love him. A couple of peasant women came by, bent under the weight of the faggots they had picked, and Mildred could see that Morton was watching the movement of these women, and she thought how well they would come into the picture he was painting. Soon after he rose from his easel and walked towards her. 'Have you finished?' she said. 'No, not quite, but the light has changed. I cannot go on any more to-day. One can't work in the sunlight above an hour and a half.' 'You've been working longer than that.' 'But haven't touched the effect. I've been painting in some figures-- two peasant women picking sticks, come and look.' XVI. Three days after Morton finished his picture. Mildred had been with him most of the time. And now lunch was over, and they lay on the rug under the oak tree talking eagerly. 'Corot never married,' Morton remarked, as he shaded his eyes with his hand, and asked himself if any paint appeared in his sky. There was a corner on the left that troubled him. 'He doesn't seem to have ever cared for any woman. They say he never had a mistress.' 'I hear that you have not followed his example.' 'Not more than I could help.' His childish candour amused her so that she laughed outright, and she watched the stolid childish stare that she liked, until a longing to take him in her arms and kiss him came upon her. Her voice softened, and she asked him if he had ever been in love? 'Yes, I think I was.' 'How long did it last?' 'About five years.' 'And then?' 'A lot of rot about scruples of conscience. I said, I give you a week to think it over, and if I don't hear from you in that time I'm off to Italy.' 'Did she write?' 'Not until I had left Paris. Then she spent five-and-twenty pounds in telegrams trying to get me back.' 'But you wouldn't go back.' 'Not I; with me, when an affair of that sort is over, it is really over. Don't you think I'm right?' 'Perhaps so.... But I'm afraid we've learnt love in different schools.' 'Then the sooner you relearn it in my school the better.' At that moment a light breeze came up the sandy path, carrying some dust on to the picture. Morton stamped and swore. For three minutes it was damn, damn, damn. 'Do you always swear like that in the presence of ladies?' 'What's a fellow to do when a blasted wind comes up smothering his picture in sand?'