From time to time the mother made wondering speech to the sisters. "How much nicer William is now! He's just as good as he can be. There for a while he was so cross and out of sorts. I don't see what could have come over him. But now he's just as good as he can be." Hollanden told him, "Come up to the inn more, you fool." "I was up there yesterday." "Yesterday! What of that? I've seen the time when the farm couldn't hold you for two hours during the day." "Go to blazes!" "Millicent got a letter from Grace Fanhall the other day." "That so?" "Yes, she did. Grace wrote---- Say, does that shadow look pure purple to you?" "Certainly it does, or I wouldn't paint it so, duffer. What did she write?" "Well, if that shadow is pure purple my eyes are liars. It looks a kind of slate colour to me. Lord! if what you fellows say in your pictures is true, the whole earth must be blazing and burning and glowing and----" Hawker went into a rage. "Oh, you don't know anything about colour, Hollie. For heaven's sake, shut up, or I'll smash you with the easel." "Well, I was going to tell you what Grace wrote in her letter. She said----" "Go on." "Gimme time, can't you? She said that town was stupid, and that she wished she was back at Hemlock Inn." "Oh! Is that all?" "Is that all? I wonder what you expected? Well, and she asked to be recalled to you." "Yes? Thanks." "And that's all. 'Gad, for such a devoted man as you were, your enthusiasm and interest is stupendous." * * * * * The father said to the mother, "Well, William's going back to New York next week." "Is he? Why, he ain't said nothing to me about it." "Well, he is, anyhow." "I declare! What do you s'pose he's going back before September for, John?" "How do I know?" "Well, it's funny, John. I bet--I bet he's going back so's he can see that girl." "He says it's his work." CHAPTER XIX. Wrinkles had been peering into the little dry-goods box that acted as a cupboard. "There are only two eggs and half a loaf of bread left," he announced brutally. "Heavens!" said Warwickson from where he lay smoking on the bed. He spoke in a dismal voice. This tone, it is said, had earned him his popular name of Great Grief. From different points of the compass Wrinkles looked at the little cupboard with a tremendous scowl, as if he intended thus to frighten the eggs into becoming more than two, and the bread into becoming a loaf. "Plague take it!" he exclaimed. "Oh, shut up, Wrinkles!" said Grief from the bed. Wrinkles sat down with an air austere and virtuous. "Well, what are we going to do?" he demanded of the others. Grief, after swearing, said: "There, that's right! Now you're happy. The holy office of the inquisition! Blast your buttons, Wrinkles, you always try to keep us from starving peacefully! It is two hours before dinner, anyhow, and----" "Well, but what are you going to do?" persisted Wrinkles.