She turned from her steady regard of him, and looked down at the sketch in her hand. “Because,” she said, her voice chill and constrained as was its habit in moments of emotion, “I haven’t money to carry me on till then. I shouldn’t have wasted this fortnight if I had known.” “It hasn’t been wasted,” argued Montague, still careless and unimpressed. “You couldn’t have done without it.” She did not lift her eyes. “It is quite true I needed a rest,” she said, “but I could have employed the time in trying to find another post. I could have advertised. I could have answered advertisements.” “And ended up as you are now minus the cost of the postage,” said Montague. She took up her brush again. “Yes, that is quite possible; but I should have had the satisfaction of knowing that I had done my best.” “You’ve done much more for yourself by just taking a rest and sketching,” said Montague. “Have you done any besides this?” She answered him with her eyes upon her work. “Three.” “Will you let me see them?” “If you wish.” “When?” “Whenever you like.” “May I come round to-night then—sometime after dinner? I went round to your diggings just now. It was the old woman who sent me on here. Extraordinary old witch! Does she make you comfortable?” “The place is quite clean,” said Frances. “That’s non-committal. What’s the food like?” “I don’t suppose you would care for it. It is quite plain, but it is good. It suits me all right, and it suits my purse.” He pounced upon the words. “Then why in heaven’s name worry? A little extra holiday never hurt anyone, and you have got your sketching.” “I can’t afford it,” said Frances. “But if you can sell some of your work.” “I can’t,” she said. “Well, I can for you. It’s the same thing. Look here, Miss Thorold! You’re not being reasonable.” She turned again and faced him. Her eyes were very quiet, quite inscrutable. “It is not that I am unreasonble, Mr. Rotherby,” she said. “It is simply you—who do not understand.” There was stubbornness in his answering look. “I understand perfectly,” he said. “I know what you are afraid of. But if you will only leave things to me, it won’t happen. After all, you promised to be my secretary, didn’t you? You can’t seriously mean to let me down?” “I!” Her eyes widened and darkened in genuine surprise. “I don’t think you can very well accuse me of that,” she said. “Can’t I? In spite of the fact that you are threatening to throw me over?” There was a bantering note in his voice, but his look was wary. “I must think of myself,” she said. “You forget I have got to make my living.” “No, I haven’t forgotten. But there are more ways than one of doing that.” His look fell suddenly to the trailing honeysuckle at her feet and dwelt there with an odd abstraction. “Surely you can fill in time as I have suggested,” he said. “You won’t be a loser in the end.”