“What are you looking at?” Katherine asked me suddenly, having reached, I suppose, the end of a chapter or a story. “Nothing,” I answered guiltily. But she wheeled round in her chair, and stared back at the house. I dipped my brush in water, and remarked quite quietly, “It’s only that I thought I saw someone at the window――the third window from the left, upstairs.” Katherine shaded her eyes with her hand. “I can’t see anybody: the sun catches the glass. It must be one of the maids, for there’s nobody else in.” She yawned and took up the book again. “If it _is_ one of the maids,” she added, “she might have had sufficient sense to bring us out tea. I’ve been simply dying for some for the last half-hour, only I didn’t like to disturb you.” “She hasn’t been there half an hour,” I replied. “I’ll go and tell them. Promise you won’t look at what I’ve done while I’m away: it isn’t finished.” “All right. I must see it when it _is_ though: you’re not to tear it up or anything.” “No, of course not.” I walked back to the house, and not till I was quite close did I glance up at the windows above me. Naturally there was nothing. I hesitated in the hall. Had I been really sincere in thinking I had seen anything or not? I couldn’t be quite sure, for there was no doubt I often deliberately gave my imagination a kind of push in a certain definite direction, started it off, as it were, and then left it to perform all kinds of antics. Before me lay the broad, low staircase. Should I go up? I leaned against the balusters and listened, gazing aloft into the cool shadow. Suddenly I heard a door open near the kitchen, then the rustle of a dress, and one of the servants appeared. I told her that Miss Dale would like tea brought outside, and went into the morning-room myself for a small folding-table, which I carried back with me. I looked again at my drawing. “Tea will be here in a minute or two,” I said. Then I handed the drawing to Katherine, for it was a failure, and there was no use going on with it. “Don’t hold it so close to you,” I cried, and Katherine obediently stretched out her arm full length. “I think it’s quite good, you know, if it wasn’t meant to be my portrait,――but it’s no more like me than Adam.” “Don’t be so rude. Of course it’s like you.” A servant appeared with a tea-tray, and as soon as she was gone I seated myself on the grass at Katherine’s feet. When I had finished tea and had handed her back my empty cup I still sat there. “Do you see that strip of yellow sand down below? It always reminds me of a certain poem.” I knew Katherine was not fond of poetry; she had told me so herself; but I repeated the verses aloud for my own pleasure, in a sort of sing-song, laying tremendous stress on the rhymes.