Betsey flushed a little and smiled. “That one was mine. ...” “Cynthia, she’s good,” Nancy turned enthusiastically to the others. “The stuff was swell. ...” Betsey continued. They were to be married next week, in Paris, and return to the States, Dad and Robert and she. Betsey had letters of introduction to two or three big theatrical producers in New York and promise of further work with Cochran. “Grand!” applauded Nancy. But the trouble, it seemed, was this: Robert didn’t want his wife to continue her work after they were married. “Oh dear!” murmured Cynthia. Just suppose Chick didn’t want her to keep on with her covers. But then Chick was an artist also; he understood. “Stop your painting?” asked Nancy, puzzled to understand anyone in a family that didn’t design or illustrate or paint. “Oh no, he’s willing I should keep on with the designing, but not willing I should earn money with it.” Which explained their quarrel at the table last night, explained why Betsey had gone off today by herself on the rocks. “But now it’s all right, isn’t it?” asked Cynthia. Betsey’s smile became somewhat less bright. “No ... o,” she admitted. “We made it up, the quarrel I mean. But nothing is decided, nothing definite.” “It’ll work out somehow,” consoled Cynthia. “Just see if it doesn’t.” Betsey of the buttercup hair was still on her mind next morning. Nancy had volunteered to go on a hunt for the small boy of the hill, the one who had warned them of the tide. Cynthia had an idea that he would make a good model for her next magazine cover. She herself was sharing the privilege of the cabbage patch and the shade of the parapet with Mrs. Brewster, both painting busily, when Betsey’s voice sounded slightly above Cynthia’s right ear. “’S good,” murmured the voice. Cynthia looked up. “Hi!” she said, around the paintbrush in her mouth, but her gaze wandered back to the sunny ochre of the sands and the blue-green of the cabbages. Difficult to depict sunlight against that false horizon; you need blue sky to make a landscape look sunny. “I’m going up to the abbey,” whispered Betsey with an eye on Mrs. Brewster busily painting along the wall. “Stop on the way back. And don’t fall into any oubliette.” But after she had gone Cynthia still worried about her. It was all mixed up with the hue of cabbages in sunlight. Why was Betsey alone, had they quarreled again? If that Robert Yberri had any sense he’d let her keep on with her work ... oh glory, _how_ did you get the color of that shadow! Cynthia took a peek at Mrs. Brewster’s oil sketch, almost groaned at the comparison, but mixed a tiny drop of rose madder with her wash and cocked her head on one side. Perhaps that was it!