some warmth, and
paused.

Her companion opened her eyes widely, and darted a keen glance at
the girl. Then, settling herself into her corner:

"My dear child, to whom do you say it?"

It was eminently characteristic of Lady Garnett that, even when she
was sleepy, she understood what people were going to say long before
the words were spoken, and, especially with her familiars, she had a
habit of taking her anticipations as realized.

Mary found something embarrassing in the humour of the old lady's
expression, and devoted herself to gazing out of the window at the
mountain-bound landscape, in which houses, trees, and cattle all
seemed to be in miniature, until the sound of regular breathing
assured her that the inquisitive eyes were closed.

CHAPTER XII

During the long, hot August, which variously dispersed the rest of
their acquaintances, the intimacy of that ill-assorted couple, the
bird of passage Rainham, and Oswyn the artist, was able to ripen.
They met occasionally at Brodonowski's, of which dingy restaurant
they had now almost a monopoly; for its artistic session had been
prorogued, and the "boys" were scattered, departing one by one, as
their purses and inclinations prompted, to resume acquaintance with
their favourite "bits" in Cornwall, or among the orchards and moors
of Brittany, to study mountains in sad Merioneth, or to paint ocean
rollers and Irish peasants in ultimate Galway. On the occasion of
their second meeting, Rainham having (a trifle diffidently, for the
painter was not a questionable man) evinced a curiosity as to his
summer movements, Oswyn had scornfully repudiated such a notion.

"Thank God!" he cried, "I have outworn that mania of searching for
prettiness. London is big enough for me. My work is here, and the
studies I want are here, and here I stay till the end of all things.
I hate the tame country faces, the aggressive stillness and the
silent noise, the sentiment and the sheep of it. Give me the streets
and the yellow gas, the roar of the City, smoke, haggard faces,
flaming omnibuses, parched London, and the river rolling oilily by
the embankment like Styx at night when the lamps shine."

He drew in a breath thirstily, as though the picture were growing on
canvas before him.

"Well, if you want river subjects you must come and find them at
Blackpool," said Rainham; and Oswyn had replied abruptly that he
would.

And he kept his word, not once but many times, dropping d