She looked at him, not touching the flowers, her smile faintly quizzical. “You can sit on a corner of this rug if you like. It is rather a ragged affair, but it serves its purpose.” She indicated the corner furthest from her, and Rotherby dropped down upon it with a satisfied air. “Oh, this is a loafer’s paradise. How are you getting on, Miss Thorold? You look—” he regarded her critically—“you look like one who has bathed in magic dew.” She met his look, her own wholly impersonal. “I feel rather like that,” she said. “It has been a wonderful fortnight. I am quite ready for work.” He leaned upon his elbow, still carelessly watching her. “Have you learnt to milk cows yet?” he asked. “Well, no!” She laughed a little. “But I have several times watched the operation. You saw that girl just now, driving the cows back to pasture for the night. She comes from such a dear old farm on the moor called Tetherstones. I have stood at the door of the cowshed and watched her. She is wonderfully quick at it.” “Is she going to give you lessons?” he said idly. “I haven’t got to the point of asking her yet. We only pass the time of day when we meet.” Frances picked up her sketching-block again. Her hand was quite steady now. “May I see?” said Rotherby. “When it is finished,” she said. “No, now, please!” His tone had a hint of imperiousness. She leaned forward with the faintest possible suggestion of indulgence, such as one might show to a child, and gave it to him. He took it in silence, studied it at first casually, then more closely, with growing interest, finally looked up at her. “You ought to find a ready market for this sort of thing. It’s exquisite.” She coloured then vividly, almost painfully, and the man’s eyes kindled, watching her. “Do you really think that?” she asked in a low voice. “Of course I do. It isn’t to my interest to say it, is it? You’ve mistaken your vocation.” He smiled with the words and gave her back the sketch. “It isn’t a paying game—except for the chosen few. But I believe I could find you a market for this sort of thing. I had no idea you were so talented.” “It has always been my pastime,” said Frances rather wistfully. “But I couldn’t make a living at it.” “You could augment a living,” he said. “Ah! But one needs interest for that. And I—” she hesitated—“I don’t think I am very good at pushing my wares.” He laughed. “Well, I’ll supply the interest—such as it is. I’ll do my best anyway. You go on sketching for a bit, and I’ll come and look on and admire. Shall I?” She gave him a steady look. “When are you going to begin your book?” “Oh, that!” he spoke with easy assurance. “That’ll have to keep for a bit. I’m not in the mood for it yet. By and by,—in the winter——” Her face changed a little. “In that case,” she said, slowly, “I ought to set about finding another post.” “Oh, rot!” said Montague with lightness. “Why?”